Hubris
by psychochick1
Summary: AU. Six years after the Pilot, Sam's a profiler with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. When Special Agent Henriksen asks him for help on a series of strange cases, past and present collide with disastrous consequences.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Hubris

**Rating: **R

**Genre:** gen

**Summary: **AU after Pilot. Sam didn't go with Dean that Halloween night. Six years later, he's a profiler with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. But when Special Agent Henriksen asks him for help on a series of strange cases, the past he thought he buried collides with the life he's made for himself, with disastrous consequences.

**Warnings/Spoilers: **AU fic concerning canon episodes but envisioned with the butterfly effect, centered around Nightshifter. Spoilers specific for 1.01 Pilot, 1.06 Skin, 2.07 Usual Suspects, 2.12 Nightshifter, 3.08 A Very Supernatural Christmas, and general spoilers for all aired episodes. Rating for language, violence, mentions of gore, themes.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Anything you recognize isn't mine, it's the property of the CW, Warner Bros, and Kripke & Co. Just for fun, no infringement intended.

**Author's Notes:** Written for the Big Bang Challenge over on LJ.

About the title – Hubris is used in modern English to mean overconfident pride and arrogance, usually with some sort of consequences, i.e. "Pride goes before the fall." But in classical Greek, it is a legal term, a crime, and a deadly sin. Hubris was not a crime against the gods; it was a crime by mortals against other mortals, an act of pride so excessive, overbearing, and usually violent, as to shame and demean the victim merely for your own gratification and to establish seniority over them. Basically, playing god over another person in a publicly humiliating fashion. That is what pissed off the gods, when someone dared step in their shoes. It's a common tragic flaw in many heroes, often leading them to personal destruction.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Dean stands in the dim living room, cocky smirk on his face that cracks just slightly as he looks at Sam standing there with his arm around Jess. Sam drinks him in, can't help himself. It's been over two years since he last saw his brother, and he mentally tallies up the changes. In a lot of ways, Dean hasn't changed a bit – he's still the cocky smart-ass larger than life big brother Sam has always known. But the few changes visible are remarkable. He's older now, his eyes carrying more years than his handsome face. There's a weariness there Sam has never seen before, a vulnerability that's barely concealed beneath the badass exterior.

He looks down for a second, then meets Sam's eyes squarely. "Dad's on a hunting trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days."

Sam feels thrill of apprehension at those words, amplified by the fact that Dean actually came here in person to say them. "Jess, excuse us. We have to go outside."

Dean almost sighs, quirks a small smile as he leads the way out of the apartment. Sam grabs a hoodie to throw on over his thin t-shirt and follows him out, irritation starting to overtake his worry. "Dean, I can't believe you just came here."

Dean throws him a look over his shoulder as the door closes behind him. "Wow, you'd almost think you weren't happy to see me."

Sam huffs. "I mean, come on; you can't just break in, in the middle of the night, and expect me to hit the road with you."

"You're not hearing me Sammy. Dad's _missing_; I need you to help me find him." Their footsteps clatter on the stairwell as they descend.

"You remember the poltergeist in Amherst, or the devil's gates in Clifton?" Sam sure remembers; he remembers the terror of waiting, of uncertainty, of watching days ticks by without a single word from John. There were times Sam was sure they were orphans, and all he could do was cling to Dean to make it all right. Looking back now, he's filled all over again with fury at John. Massively screwed up doesn't even begin to describe their childhood. "He was missing then too. He's always missing and he's always fine." If stinking of whiskey by the time he stumbled home.

Dean shakes his head. "Not for this long. Now you gonna come with me or not?"

"I'm not."

Dean gets a confused look on his face, like he can't believe Sam wouldn't want to get on board. "Why not?

Sam looks him straight in the eye, trying to convey his seriousness. "I swore I was done hunting. For good."

"Come on, it wasn't easy but it wasn't that bad."

Sam scoffs. "Yeah? When I told Dad I was scared of the thing in my closet he gave me a .45."

Dean raises his eyebrows, _yeah, so?_ "Well, what was he supposed to do?"

Sometimes his brother's capacity for self-delusion still manages to shock Sam. "I was 9 years old. He was supposed to say 'Don't be afraid of the dark.'" _Like a normal parent_ goes without saying.

Dean scowls at him. "Don't be afraid of the dark? What, are you kidding me? Of course you should be afraid of the dark! You know what's out there!"

Only too well, and Dean knows more than he does about the things that go bump in the night. Sam sighs and looks away. "Yeah, I know, but still – the way we grew up, after Mom was killed, and Dad's obsession to find the thing that killed her –" John's eyes, bloodshot from too much alcohol and long nights reading obscure books in bad light, haunted by the things he'd seen, flash through Sam's mind. Twenty years worth of obsession, and how much devastation it caused. "But we still haven't found the damn thing, so we kill everything we can find."

"Save a lot of people doing it, too." And Dean actually looks proud in pointing this out. Sam's ire is rekindled at the thought. Of course, how could he expect anything different? Dean's always been Dad's good little soldier, buying in to all his crap no matter what, like this is what he's called to do. As if anyone could really be called to his hellish lifestyle.

"You think Mom would have wanted this for us?" Sam points out through gritted teeth. Dean actually rolls his eyes and pushes through the gate leading out the back of the apartment building. Sam follows, trying to get across just how screwed up it all really is. "The weapon training, and melting the silver into bullets? Man, Dean, we were raised like warriors."

Sam remembers a history lesson on the Greeks, and the legends of the Spartans. They raised their kids to be warriors too, held fighting and dying in battle to be the ultimate goal of a proud citizen. He recalls a legend about a boy who stuffed a fox down his shirt to conceal it; in its panic, the animal clawed the boy to death. Nobody knew the fox was there until the boy collapsed and the animal ran. The boy was supposed to be admired, held as a shining example of Spartan beliefs, because he suffered in silence.

Sam's never liked the Spartans. He's always preferred the Athenians himself.

"So, what are you gonna do? You just gonna live some normal apple-pie life? Is that it?"

"No. Not normal. Safe." That's something that Dean's never understood. It's never been about being normal, not for Sam. It's about being safe, about not wondering if every time someone walks out the door that's the last time he'll see them. About not having to learn at age 10 how to stitch up a gash in his brother or father. It's about not having to run from law enforcement, not packing up and leaving town in the middle of the night. It's about not having to sit and hold vigil with a shotgun through the night in the woods over his concussed brother with a creature still out there, wondering if either of them will live to see dawn.

Dean scoffs, leaning back against the Impala. "And that's why you ran away?"

Of course Dean would see it like that. "I was just going to college. It was Dad who said if I was gonna go, I should stay gone." He'll never admit to anyone, let alone Dean, just how much those words had hurt. "And that's what I'm doing."

Dean thins his lips, acknowledging without argument what no doubt had to be a painful memory for him too. But, Sam tells himself, he chose a side too that night. And it wasn't Sam's. Dean looks away for a moment. "Yeah, well, Dad's in real trouble, if he's not dead already. I can feel it."

Sam just looks at him. Finally Dean meets his eyes. "I can't do this alone."

Now that right there is a blatant lie. Dean is the most capable person, let alone hunter, Sam has ever met. In fact, he'd lay odds that Dean's better than Dad. And if anyone can track a Winchester, it's another Winchester.

But not Sam. He's left that life, is making a new one for himself. One that doesn't include monsters under the bed or demons in the dark. As much as he loves his brother, he can't turn his back on it. Not now, not after everything he's fought to get, every hard step he took to prove himself. So Sam steels himself and says softly, but with finality, "Yes, you can."

_And you're gonna have to._

Five minutes later, Sam watches from the stairs as the Impala's taillights fade off down the street, and feels both a curious weightlessness and a crushing heaviness in his chest. Something significant just happened, and he's not entirely sure he understands.

He turns and climbs the stairs, back to his life, with an law school interview pending on Monday that could hold the keys to a respectable career. Back to his apartment with his blonde girlfriend, who maybe at Thanksgiving will accept his ring. Back to his future, all bright and shiny and full of hope, and what he wants to make of it.

*~*~*~*~*~*

_Six years later . . . . _

"Okay, listen up! Team Alpha is gonna enter from the front, while Team Charlie circles around the back to secure the back exits. Team Bravo's getting set up at sniper points. Remember, the hostages might still be alive, so non-lethal force only unless I say otherwise." SWAT Captain Bradley looked over at the small team of FBI agents overlooking the briefing. "Winchester!"

Sam paused in pulling his Kevlar vest tight. "Yes?"

"You've been trackin' this guy for months, know him better than he knows himself. If he's gonna rabbit, which way's he gonna go?"

Sam sealed the last Velcro strap, absently double-checked the clearance on his holster as he thought. "Depends if the hostages are alive or not. I'm thinking they are. He's smart, and he has an agenda, knows killing them gets him nothing right now. In that case, he'll leave the hostages on the main level as a screen while he goes out the back." He peered at the blueprints of the house spread out on the wall. "No basement?"

"Not on the plans."

"And we know for certain he hasn't been digging his own rat hole?" He traced a few blue lines with his finger. "If he's in the foundation, it's only 20 feet or so to this main sewer line. Not pleasant, but doable." He glanced over his shoulder. "Hodkins?"

The curly-haired blond agent nodded and pulled out his cell, quickly dialing the support team. "Hey Deb, got credit card reports on our perp? Good, look for large construction expenses, any earth-movers, drills, hell, a load of shovels." He waited, listening, and two minutes later smiled. "Thanks Deb." Hanging up, he shook his head. "If he's digging, he's using his hands."

"Good." Sam nodded at Bradley. "Make sure Bravo's locked down on any roof exit points, but likely he'll use a distraction and go out the back. He's not adverse to booby-trapping, though.. Figure at the very least the front door will be, probably the back too."

"Great." Bradley pursed his lips. "Jeffers, Hodkins, you'll go with Team Alpha. Winchester, McDowell, Team Charlie. Just don't get dead; I hate the paperwork." He cast a hard stare around at the gathered SWAT officers. "Move out!"

The teams quickly split and headed as quickly and unobtrusively as possible towards the target house two blocks away. In the middle of six heavily armed SWAT officers, Sam glanced up and around, barely able to see the scattered snipers in the surrounding houses. Good. In case Randalls actually managed to get by the teams on the ground, there was no way he was escaping the neighborhood without an extra hole or two drilled through his body.

The SWAT guys infiltrated the backyard near silently and took up standard positions, weapons trained on all visible exit points. McDowell, a petite brunette with a stern face, posted herself on the far side of the porch opposite Sam, covering the door. They exchanged quick nods, then waited for the signal.

For a long minute all was quiet. Then a crackle over the ear pieces. "Alpha team, go." The next instant they heard glass shattering from the front of the house, muffled screams, and Jeffers's distinctive basso voice barking out, "FBI! Nobody move!" Scuffles, then a loud boom that shook the house. Sam winced; that would be the explosives on the front door. Hopefully they set them off without anyone getting caught in the explosion.

More screams, a couple thuds, sounds of a fight, then a metallic clatter and the hiss of tear gas. Seconds later the back door smashed open and a weedy, unshaven guy barreled out, shotgun in one hand. He stumbled a bit at the sight of eight guns trained on him, eyes flickering between the masked SWAT and the two FBI agents.

"Randalls, freeze!" McDowell shouted, gun trained on his head. She was closest to him, and at this range he couldn't twitch without her pulling the trigger first. With a heavy sigh, he cautiously tossed the shotgun away and raised his hands. She gestured with her gun, and he linked his hands behind his head as he sank to his knees.

"Marcus Randalls, you have the right to remain silent," McDowell began, reaching for her handcuffs. Sam nodded, covering her as she holstered her gun and snicked the first cuff around the suspect's wrist.

Suddenly another boom went off just behind them, a small fireball erupting from the back door and shattering the windows as Sam staggered off the porch from the shock wave, rolling as he hit the grass. The SWAT officers reacted immediately, covering their faces as they ducked out of the way. Randalls moved, almost quicker than they could track, grabbing McDowell's arm and twisting her around in front of him, snatching her gun out of her holster.

"Nobody move!" he screamed, cuffs dangling from the arm locked around McDowell's throat, gun jammed to her temple. He was tall enough that she was barely on her toes as he hauled her back against him, eyes darting around to all the SWAT guys. They'd been caught with their guns pointed away, and now couldn't get the suspect back in their sights before he fired.

Sam stayed down, sprawled belly down just off the edge of the porch, mind flashing through possibilities. His gun was still in his hand, but he couldn't draw a bead without being seen. Randalls was still under the cover of the porch, and with McDowell blocking most of his body, none of the snipers had a shot. Possibly someone in the house could emerge soon, but Sam couldn't count on that, not with those two explosions. He craned his neck slightly to check the door – only to see it blocked by debris. No good.

"Back off!" Randalls snarled, pressing the muzzle so hard into McDowell's head she'd no doubt have a bruise the next day. Sam flicked his gaze toward the team leader, who gave him a nearly imperceptible nod. The crackle came again over the earpiece as the rest of the squad was informed, "The suspect has taken an agent hostage." The SWAT team exchanged glances, then slowly started to back away, guns raised but not pointed in Randalls' direction.

Randalls edged along the side of the house, dragging a choking McDowell with him, eyes scanning for more officers, a way out, something. Sam noticed he didn't look quite in his direction – did he think Sam had been knocked out? Good, it might give him an advantage. He just had to wait for an opening . . .

As many perps had learned in the past, McDowell, while petite, was never one to go quietly. Her one free hand stopped clawing the arm around her throat and went for the gun hand, simultaneously slamming her heel back into Randalls' knee. There was a sickening pop, Randalls yelled in pained rage, and his finger tightened on the trigger. The shot barely missed McDowell's face, and Sam moved.

Surging to his feet, Sam cleared the porch in one leap and aimed a kick at Randalls' hand, connecting and sending the gun flying as the wrist snapped back. Howling, Randalls dropped McDowell, who rolled out of the way as Sam followed through with a right hook, connecting Randalls' chin to make him stagger back. Shaking it off, he swung a vicious punch, but Sam caught the arm, twisted it into an elbow lock submission hold, spun him around then rammed him face-first into the wall.

Another crunch and blood spattered the cracked paint from a broken nose, and Sam used the distraction to catch the cuffs swinging free and lock them in place around both wrists, tightening them a little more than necessary. The suspect tried to mule-kick him, but Sam simply adjusted his stance and leaned his weight into the suspect until he was mashed uncomfortably into the wall.

"Settle down Randalls, before I have to get rough," Sam snarled in his ear.

"You broke my fuckin' nose, man!" Randalls yelled.

"That's what you get for touching my partner," Sam retorted, then hooked his ankle and tossed him into the grass where SWAT kept their guns trained on him. "And that's for making my job harder. Marcus Randalls, you're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law . . ."

As SWAT hauled Randalls to his feet, McDowell touched Sam's arm, and with a glance he fell silent and let her take over the Miranda rights. "You have the right to an attorney. If you can't afford one, one will be provided for you . . . "

Her voice faded as they hustled him around the side of the house to where the van and police cars had pulled up, one waiting to haul the perp away. Sam stepped back to where he had dropped his gun, checked it, then holstered it with a sigh. What a mess. He peered in one of the shattered windows to see SWAT and his fellow FBI agents untying the hostages. "Clear?" he called out.

"Clear!" came the answer from Jeffers as he emerged from what remained of the kitchen. "Come in here. You were right. Booby traps. Bastard had C-4 wired along the door frames, not a whole lot, but enough to make someone's day real unpleasant. Front door had a trigger switch – open the door and boom! Right in your face."

"And the back? That didn't go off until he was already through the door."

"'Cause that was rigged with a trip-wire stretched across the doorway here," Jeffers pointed behind him to an archway leading from the living room. "Looks like shaped charges to me, aimed inward. Discourage any pursuit while leaving the bolt-hole free. Explains why the back wall didn't come down. Although Bradley's not too happy with two injured." He gave Sam a heavy look. "SWAT found another wire, along the side of the house. Looks like it leads to more charges around the porch."

"Wait, you mean . . ."

"Haven't checked how much is down there yet, but you guys shoulda been blown to bits." Jeffers' smile had no humor to it. "One point wasn't anchored correctly, left slack in the line. Instead of triggering the spark, the wire simply came off."

"Shit." Sam let out a low whistle. "Bastard's been a busy boy."

"Good thing too. He got sloppy. Lady Luck smiles on you again, Winchester." Jeffers arched an eyebrow.

Sam snorted. "Yeah, sure. Wanna bet Morgan's going to chew me a new one for 'assaulting the suspect'?"

"No bet." Jeffers slapped his back. "On the other hand, McDowell might actually buy you a round for saving her ass."

"Nah. That just goes on the karma sheet." Sam looked around the house, watching as the shaken hostages were escorted out and the forensic guys came in to start their evidence collection. "Too bad I won't get a crack at Randalls, through. In interrogation," he clarified when Jeffers started to smirk.

"You broke the guy's nose. Of course he won't wanna talk to you. On the other hand, know what you have to look forward too?"

"Paperwork," Sam groaned.

"Paperwork," Jeffers agreed with perhaps a touch too much enthusiasm. "Morgan's gonna chain your ass to a desk for months. Or until we need your badass kung-fu again, whichever comes first."

"Careful. Never know when you might need my badass kung-fu to save your sorry ass." Sam sighed heavily as he led the way out of the house and towards the SUVs waiting for the FBI agents, shifting uncomfortably as sweat rolled down between his shoulder blades. He hated Virginia in August. "C'mon, I wanna take this vest off. Itches like a mother."

*~*~*~*~*~*

"Winchester!"

The slurred bellow drew Sam's attention as soon as he stepped into the bar from the muggy night, and he immediately looked toward the far corner where several of his teammates and a couple SWAT guys were grouped, drinks in hand. Jeffers was standing, more or less upright, grinning and waving at Sam over the crowd. With a slight smile, Sam walked over to join them.

Jeffers threw an arm over his shoulder in greeting, and Sam nearly staggered . While not quite as tall as him, Jeffers was solidly built as a linebacker and had at least twenty pounds of muscle on Sam. Despite his size, the auburn hair and big goofy grin made him resemble nothing so much as an oversized Opie Taylor. The comparison always drew a smirk.

"Hey Jeffers. See you started the party without me."

Jeffers laughed loudly as he dragged him over. "C'mon Sammy, we're off duty. Call me Mike."

"Don't call me Sammy." Sam shrugged off the arm.

Hodkins rolled his eyes at Jeffers. "Call him what you want, but don't you dare call me Stewie again, you lightweight." He shoved a beer over to Sam. "Might want to start catching up. He's already on his third."

"Of course we started without you." McDowell gave Sam a rare smile. "We weren't sure when Morgan would be done chewing your ass."

Sam winced. "Not sure he's quite done yet." He spun and stuck out his rear, mock-pouting over his shoulder. "Tell me. Is there any ass left? Felt like he chewed it all off."

As the guys laughed, McDowell swatted him. "Oh, don't worry. There's plenty ass left."

"Hey, be nice to that ass," one of the SWAT guys pointed out. "It saved yours today."

"Yeah, yeah," McDowell groused into her beer, one hand lightly touching the side of her face which glistened with antiseptic gel over reddened flash burns.

Sam nodded at her face. "You okay? Saw the medic fussing over you."

Her hand immediately dropped, but she didn't seem angry, merely put out. "Yeah. Just first degree, but the medic worried about infection from powder burns. It'll be fine in a couple days."

"Whereas I heard our perp popped his quad tendon thanks to your kick and will be walking with a limp for at least a month." A tall SWAT guy Sam didn't recognize patted her shoulder. "Served him right for picking on the woman."

"Damn straight." McDowell gave him a feral grin, which gave her a strange resemblance to a tiger shark.

"Everyone knows the female is the deadlier of the species," Sam agreed.

The SWAT guys introduced themselves as Castro and Parker from Team Charlie, but Matt and Brian when off duty. Brian called for another round from the waitress, and passed over a cold foamy glass to Sam. "To the action hero of the day," he saluted mockingly, and the rest of the group raised their glasses in turn, smirking.

Sam fought to keep from blushing but accepted their teasing as he sipped his beer. Matt met his eyes. "In all seriousness, if you ever want to ditch the suit and join us, there's always a spot open."

Hodkins spluttered into his beer. "Oh, Sam's no trigger-happy adrenaline junkie," he managed to say through his giggles, ignoring the sour looks the SWAT guys sent his way.

Jeffers concurred. "Sam's the biggest geek of us all, and I'm not talking just his height. He's our profiler."

Sam flushed darkly and started to protest, but shut up when McDowell gave him an arch look. "Just let them get it out of their systems, or they'll be insufferable," she advised. He slumped into a spare chair, hiding behind his glass as the two started their oft-repeated spiel.

"Went to Stanford on a full ride," Hodkins began.

"Straight A's in pre-law, of all things," Jeffers continued, grinning.

"Scored a 174 on his LSATs, which is scary good . . ."

"Took abnormal psychology and criminology, _for fun_ . . ."

"Got into Stanford Law School, also on a free ride, while interning at a prestigious firm . . ."

"Got bored with law school, apparently it was too _easy_ . . ."

"Switched to a double degree in forensic psychology and criminal law, the gigantic nerd."

"Graduated summa cum laude, then passed the bar on the first try."

"Decided a position in the San Francisco DA's office was too tame, and applied to the FBI."

"Now here's where it gets interesting," Jeffers played up to their audience, which by now was attracting the tables around them.

Sam just sunk even lower in his chair, cheeks flaming.

"Oh, definitely." Hodkins grinned at Sam's discomfiture. "Sam here went through the Academy and smashed a couple training records . . ."

"Out-shot the firing range instructor the first day on the range, even when switching hands, the show off."

"Put the combat instructor on his ass, too. Said it was an accident, but nobody believed him."

"So after nine months at the Academy, trained at Quantico as a profiler and was every teacher's pet."

"Managed to get himself placed on our team only two months after making active field agent status, thanks to his profiling a serial rapist."

"And just last month he celebrated two years on our team." Jeffers clapped a hand on the back of Sam's neck proudly.

Brian raised an eyebrow, impressed. "And you're how old, kid?"

Sam sighed. "Twenty-eight."

"Damn," Brian whistled. "You really are an overachieving geek."

Jeffers and Hodkins laughed at that. Sam shook his head at them. "I still can't believe you talked Deb into hacking my personnel file."

"Hey, what's a little criminal trespass between friends?" Hodkins said innocently. "Besides, she was curious too. You're working the tall, dark and mysterious vibe, but after two years the curiosity gets overwhelming."

"And you know what that did to the cat," Sam snarked.

Brian frowned. "Who's Deb?"

"Deb Kenealy, computer geek extraordinaire. She's part of our support team," Hodkins explained. "For when we really, truly need it found, decoded, hacked, or cracked by yesterday, we turn to Deb. We invited her here tonight, but apparently she had plans."

"You'd like her," McDowell told them. "She's short and cute with curly hair, brilliant, and cusses worse than a longshoreman." Sam laughed; that was Deb in a nutshell, all right, although there was a lot more to that. Deb was probably the closest thing he had to a friend nowadays.

Matt gestured to the rest of the team. "What about you guys? More child geniuses and ambitious jocks?"

"Only McDowell," Sam said, eager to get some of his own back. She scowled at him, but he simply gave her a bland look. "Our little Sarah entered Colombia University at sixteen, where she was initially pre-med, then switched to microbiology. Worked in a biomedical engineering lab while she did her thesis in alternative bio-weaponry. Needless to say, that drew some attention."

"I'd say," McDowell said dryly. "One minute I'm studying in the library, next thing I know a couple federal agents are there to ask a few questions and look through my research."

"Marked her as a potential terrorist, they did," Jeffers put in. "Maybe it was the attitude."

"Instead of locking her up, they offered her a job, then put her through the Academy. Now that was their mistake," Sam said conspiringly. "She found she liked playing with guns more than micropipettes. So instead of joining the geeks locked in the basement, she became a field agent."

Matt and Brian looked at McDowell with new appreciation. Contrary to TV, it wasn't that often one found a woman who was brilliant, beautiful, and deadly.

"Hodkins here was an accountant." Sam reached over to clap Hodkins on the shoulder. "Got bored catering to wealthy businessmen and joined the FBI to chase down paper trails. Found himself chasing down perps as well, after he moved from field auditor to field agent, but that's just a side benefit."

"Keeps him from gathering mold," Jeffers grinned, ruffling Hodkins' hair. "His name's Stewart, but that just sounds pretentious. So I call him Stewie."

"So instead of pretentiousness, you cater to his whims of world domination?" Sam dead-panned.

Hodkins shoved Jeffers away from his head. "This joker here always planned on being a fed. Don't know why exactly, but it was his life's ambition."

"I'd say you were aiming too low," Brian needled, then ducked Jeffers' playful swipe at his head.

"Hey!" Jeffers protested indignantly. "I'll have you know I was a cop before I joined the FBI. Plus I was a champion shot-putter _and_ shortstop at the University of Michigan while majoring in criminal justice, and I made the dean's list every semester."

"Okay, okay," Brian chuckled, holding up his hands. "You're the jock. We get it."

Matt drained his beer and shook his head. "Interesting mix for a team."

McDowell shrugged and signaled for another round. "We make it work."

Yeah, they made it work, Sam mentally agreed as he got started on a fresh beer, looking around at his teammates. They worked together, learned to trust each other, watched each other's backs and brought down the bad guys. He liked them, liked the camaraderie they had together and the sense of belonging. They were a team, partners, but not necessarily friends. They didn't need to know about his past or his family in order to work with him, and he enjoyed that acceptance.

Sam liked his job, his teammates, and the accomplishment he felt whenever they brought down a dirtbag. He made a difference. So even if he went home alone each night to an empty apartment, he was still proud of what he'd made of his life.


	2. Chapter 2

Day nineteen of his exile. Sam sighed heavily as he dumped his bag behind his desk and slumped into his chair. Okay, so he wasn't really exiled – it just felt like it. Between the endless paperwork involved in wrapping up the case, the two weeks' mandatory desk duty Morgan had slapped him with, the cold case reviews, and the relative quiet of late that meant no new cases, Sam spent the majority of his 8 to 5 day at his desk. Given that the rest of his team was also wading hip-deep through bureaucracy, they weren't interacting very much.

Sam snorted to himself. Most thought being an FBI agent was glamorous and action-packed, like they showed on TV. Always running around with a badge and a gun, kicking ass and taking names. But the reality was far less entertaining. Sure, his job had its moments, but as with any government job, most of the time Sam earned his paycheck doing paperwork.

Jeffers caught the snort and looked up from his computer with a knowing smirk. "Ah, the continuing high action adventures of Sam Winchester, star FBI paper pusher."

Sam rolled his eyes and flicked a finger at the stack of forms threatening to bury his inbox. "Number one cause of global warming and deforestation right here."

Hodkins gasped dramatically. "So Al Gore didn't invent global warming – he helped cause it!" Snickers briefly wafted through the bullpen, then quiet settled again as they got to work.

Two hours later Sam printed out yet another form in triplicate and pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to stave off the threatening headache. He reached for his coffee, only to find an empty mug. Mournfully looking down at the last stray drops clinging to the cup, he decided now was a great time for a break. Not break room coffee though – whoever made that sludge must have burned away their taste buds, because it bore an eerie approximation to motor oil.

However, the cart down in the lobby served real coffee, which probably accounted for their brisk business; Sam swore by their double shot lattes. Tossing his cup in the trash, he bypassed the elevator and headed for the stairwell. Taking the stairs down also gave him the opportunity to stretch his legs and back, which always cramped when he sat too long.

Upon reaching the lobby, Sam instinctively scanned his surroundings, taking in the various armed agents, couriers rushing around importantly, tourists off to the side herded by perky tour guides, and the security guards discreetly watching everything. The coffee cart didn't have a line for once, so Sam half-hurried in that direction and smiled automatically at the barista as he placed his order.

_It's funny how life turns out_, Sam mused as he watched the girl steam the milk, feeling the comforting weight of his badge on his belt. For most of his life, his family had avoided Washington D.C., leery of the law enforcement and federal agencies congregated there. Ten years ago, he would never have believed he'd be living here, let alone working for the FBI.

Then again, his team now would never believe that ten years ago, he used to hunt ghosts.

Occasionally he wondered what his father would think of him now. He hadn't seen John in nearly ten years, and the last time, while memorable, hadn't exactly been stellar. Sometimes he could still hear those final yelled words echoing in his ears, especially on the long nights when a case haunted him and he had trouble sleeping.

_If you walk out that door, don't bother coming back!_

He hadn't. And most the time, he didn't regret it.

He'd like to think that maybe John would be proud, but he still wondered. John was so devoted to the hunter's lifestyle, the one he'd dragged both his boys in to, that the mere mention of Sam doing something else less hazardous used to send them into screaming fights. Part of it was his father's inability to accept that he couldn't control everything, but now with wisdom born of a decade of separation, Sam acknowledged that his own stubbornness played a part in those as well.

Maybe John would be proud of his FBI son, more so than if Sam had stayed on his original path as a lawyer. It wasn't as if Sam just buried his head in the sand and blinded himself to all the bad things in the world. He still fought bad things, made a difference in people's lives, and he did it legitimately. The badge was his own, earned through hard work and talent, not stolen or faked like the ones John carried on occasion.

Sam accepted his hot coffee from the girl with a dimpled smile, wondering if John had kept tabs on him. After he first left, he thought not, that John had decided to deny his deserter son completely. But as the years passed, he'd noticed a few things that indicated that someone might be keeping track of him – hidden faint scratches of protection wards on lintels and windowsills, the occasional loiterer around his home and classes, a hang-up phone call. Little things that most people would dismiss.

Heading back upstairs, he mentally counted back. Nine years since he'd last seen John, six (or five, depending on how he counted) since he'd seen Dean, five since he'd had any contact with the hunting world. Six months since he last checked on John's whereabouts. Purely for self-preservation, of course.

As he walked back to his desk, he glanced around the bullpen at his teammates. McDowell was absorbed in a file, Jeffers was cursing at his computer, Hodkins had disappeared for the moment, and Morgan was in his office, deep in a phone conference and clearly not very happy about it. Making the decision, Sam set his coffee by his keyboard, quickly shut off the keystroke capture on his computer, and pulled up Lexis Nexis.

Well versed in database searches, it only took Sam about thirty minutes to run down any traces of his father. Luckily for him, John had managed to stay under the radar for most of his life, with only a couple traffic violations, one drunk and disorderly, and a single invalid firearms permit on his record. Sam knew he'd been picked up for more than that, but always under fake names that hadn't been traced back to John Winchester, and therefore didn't show up on Sam's security clearance check. It would have been very difficult to pass the background checks necessary for agent status if his father had a record of impersonating federal officers.

As it was, John hadn't appeared on any law enforcement records for years, and nobody suspicious matched his description. No hits on his driver's license or social security number. The truck most likely had another license plate change, so Sam tracked it using the VIN, which showed an active registration in Ohio and basic insurance, both listing a PO box for the return address under the name John Smith.

Sam leaned back in his chair, mind more at ease. John was alive, somewhere, and whatever else he was doing, he wasn't attracting any attention to himself. That would have to do.

On a nostalgic whim he also tried tracking the Impala, just to see what had happened to it. He got the same results as he had for the last five years; the last official record was in a St. Louis police BOLO, where it became the location for a stakeout. After that, the car just disappeared. Who knew what John had decided to do with it.

Clearing out his search cache and eliminating every trace of his activity he could, Sam eyed his inbox, working out the most efficient way to get all that paperwork done. With a fortifying gulp of coffee, he got back to work.

*~*~*~*~*~*

"Winchester!"

Sam raised his head, blinking as his eyes readjusted from the brightness of the computer screen he'd been staring at for the last three hours. "Sir?"

"Need you in conference room 3, right now."

Sam's eyebrows threatened to crawl off and join his hairline. Supervisory Special Agent Erick Morgan, a former All-American college football star who turned his back on a chance to go pro in favor of joining the FBI, just pursed his lips and nodded. The guy was completely no-nonsense when it came to his job, and Sam didn't see a reason to question his temporary release from the desk and a respite from the mind-numbing, never-ending paperwork. Quickly he got to his feet and followed his boss.

Opening the door to the conference room, Morgan gestured for him to go in first. Sam complied and found himself face to face with another agent. Sam gave him a quick once over – polished shoes, sharp slacks, badge on the belt by the holstered gun, muscular build, dark skin, close-cropped hair and goatee, intense dark eyes scanning him the exact same way.

Morgan closed the door for privacy. "Sam Winchester, meet Special Agent Victor Henriksen." Sam shook the proffered hand, noting the firm grip without the need for a macho test of strength. All three men took seats around the conference table, and Henriksen set a folder down in front of him. "Winchester is our profiler."

Henriksen pursed his lips, looking aggravated. "Just for the record, I don't like profilers. Don't think they know anything more than what some good old-fashioned investigative work uncovers. Most of the time, I don't give a rat's ass about what the perp's childhood was like, whether his mommy breast-fed him or if he prefers dogs or cats. All I care about is how to catch the dirt bags."

Sam raised his eyebrows at the hostile tone, as did Morgan. Tamping down his irritation, Sam modulated his voice carefully. "That's what I'm interested in too, Special Agent Henriksen. I'm also a field agent. But profiling a subject, getting into his head, lets me predict what he'll do next. It's strategy, like a chess game, knowing which way they'll jump. That's what helps us catch them quicker."

Henriksen snorted. "Getting into his head? Sounds like psychic mumbo-jumbo to me."

"Is it?" Sam leaned forward to look Henriksen dead in the eye. "You do a bit of it too. Every time you observe someone's body language, their tone of voice, how they dress and speak and what they prefer, you're creating a profile of them. Just now when I walked in, you looked at my clothes, my walk, how I shook your hand, and you automatically, maybe unconsciously, started categorizing me. If this was an interrogation, you'd be observing for any tells, any weaknesses to exploit." Sam spread his hands. "It's human nature to observe and classify. Profilers are just trained to do it consciously."

Henriksen eyed Sam, as if reevaluating his opinion of Sam's competency and profession, then smiled slightly. "Okay, you were right," he said to Morgan, who quirked his own smile.

Sam frowned, looking between the two of them. "You were trying to rile me up?"

"Maybe." Henriksen tapped the folder. "I've had two other profilers look at this case – analysts, not field trained agents – and both of them gave me crap. I wanted someone who didn't have their head stuck in a textbook, who actually had some real-life experience. You came highly recommended. Sharp profiler, great instincts, good agent."

Unsure how to respond, Sam just nodded. "Okay . . . is there a reason you're stroking my ego? What's so special about this case?"

Henriksen pushed the file towards Sam, who opened it and quickly flipped through the pages as Henriksen spoke. "It's weird, that's what. There are eight separate cases there, all of them robberies. Banks, high-end jewelers, a couple armored trucks, big time stuff. The accountants figure that on average, the perp got away with over four hundred grand in each heist."

Sam frowned, skimming the autopsy report connected to one report. "Robbery and murder?"

"In a couple," Henriksen nodded. "Security guards catching them in the act. Some were beaten, some were shot."

Sam noted the locations and dates, mentally mapping out the path. "You have any leads on the guy?"

"Kind of." Henriksen gave a humorless smile. "In each case, we already know who the perp was."

Sam shook his head, puzzled. "Then what do you need my help for?"

Henriksen leaned forward. "Some local cop noticed a pattern, which quickly caught our attention. Each case," he tapped the file, "has the same MO. The _exact_ same. Each time, it was a long-time employee, trusted implicitly, no family to speak of. No attempt to conceal their identity from the security cameras. And in each case, after the robbery, they went home, hid the loot, then committed suicide."

"What?" Sam glanced at Henriksen. "That makes absolutely no sense."

"Tell me about it." Henriksen pulled a couple sheets out from the back of the file. "As if that's not weird enough, then there's these. A coroner's report on one of the suicides indicated that the guy had actually been dead for two days _before_ the robbery. Two other MEs concurred with the findings."

"How is that possible?" Morgan interjected, leaning towards Sam to read the report himself.

"You tell me." Henriksen tapped the second paper he'd pulled. "And maybe you can explain why this guy, who survived his suicide attempt, claims it wasn't him, that someone broke into his house, assaulted him, then made himself look like him before staging the suicide."

Sam barely suppressed the shiver of dread that ran down his spine and settled thickly in his stomach. "That's crazy."

"I know." Henriksen looked away for a second, tension evident in every line of his face. "I've been on this case two months already. In that time, another bank and an armored car were robbed. I've got next to nothing to go on." He snorted. "You wouldn't believe the nonsense the two profilers were spouting off. One was going on about this giant brainwashing conspiracy led by a criminal mastermind. I'm surprised he didn't mention a secret volcano lair."

Sam snorted a laugh, amused despite himself. "And the other?"

"Something crap about string theory or quantum physics explaining how it's possible it can all be just one massive coincidence."

"Now that's crazy." Sam eyed Henriksen speculatively as he gestured at the file. "What do you think?"

"Off the record? I think it's the same guy doing all of this." Henriksen leaned back in his chair as he met Sam's gaze evenly. "Don't have any evidence to prove it, though. Security feeds, physical evidence, witnesses, all point to the dead employees. Cops think it's open and shut, don't want to look any further. All I've got to go on is the MO and my gut." He spread his hands. "But honestly, there are only three possibilities. Either it's the world's biggest coincidence, a giant conspiracy, or it's all the work of the same person."

Sam nodded, finding the report on the latest crime and reading it quickly. He frowned. "Where are the interview notes for the last guy? Jon Cooper?"

"Behind the medical report, but there's nothing there. Did you see his contact information?"

Sam scanned the report. "Whiteshore Mental Hospital?"

"Yep. Between the suicide attempt and his insistence at seeing something turn in to him, they had him committed. Dunno how crazy he actually is, but the drug overdose sure did a number on him." Henriksen paused. "So, in your professional opinion, is it one guy? Or do I need to take this down to Mulder and Scully?" he finished sarcastically.

Sam finished reading through the case reports as he considered his answer carefully. Logically, there was no reasonable explanation to these cases. Instinctually, he knew this was the type of case he'd feared would come across his desk one day. But he wanted to be sure.

"I have to admit, it looks very suspicious. The evidence precludes the assumption of simplicity, at least until a reasonable explanation can be found for the anomalies. Personally, I think you're right. It could very well be a single person, perhaps two working together."

He bit his lip for a second. "Would it be possible for me to interview the survivor and a couple witnesses? They may know more than they think."

A moment's pause, then Henriksen nodded. "Okay by me. Anything that would help us catch this guy before he strikes again."

Sam glanced over at Morgan, who shrugged. "We're not on an active case right now, so go ahead. I'll call you in if we need you."

Sam smiled perfunctorily at the two men as he gathered up the file and stood. Here he'd thought this week would be boring.


	3. Chapter 3

A blue-scrubs-clad orderly led Sam down the beige tiled corridor, keys jingling as he talked. "Mr. Cooper's a good patient. Takes his meds, doesn't cause any trouble. Despite his delusions, he's surprisingly rational and intelligent. Dr. Buckholtz thinks the drug overdose caused the hallucinations and memory loss."

"Did Mr. Cooper have a history of depression? Any previous conditions?" Sam kept pace with the orderly easily.

"Nah. He seemed pretty normal, actually. Guess the stress of being a bank manager finally caused him to snap." They turned the corner and stopped in front of one of the doors. "He's still on suicide watch, just in case. They're waiting for the results of the last neuro consult before trying any anti-psychotics, so right now all he's taking is anti-depressants and a mild sedative at night. He hasn't displayed any violent tendencies, but be careful anyway."

Sam nodded, and the orderly unlocked the door. "Hey Jon, got a visitor for you."

A tall man with medium brown hair and beard looked over at them from his relaxed position on the bed. Upon seeing Sam, he sat up and swung his legs over the side, nodding in greeting with a small smile. He gave Sam a once-over, eyes sharp and clear. "Hey. Was wondering if the feds were coming back to talk to me."

Sam nodded at the orderly, who shut the door behind him with a click, before turning his attention back to Jon. "How'd you know I was a fed?" He'd given up his badge and gun, even his pen, before being escorted down the locked ward.

Jon gestured at Sam's shoes. "Only feds, military, and bankers get that level of shine on their shoes. Your hair's too long for military, the suit's too cheap to be a banker, and only the feds have a reason to talk to me."

Sam smiled in amusement. "Very perceptive."

Jon rolled his eyes. "I managed a bank. It was my job to notice the details and decipher the fine print. So what can I do for you, Agent . . .?"

"Special Agent Sam Winchester, FBI." Sam offered his hand, which Jon shook firmly. "I wanted to talk to you about the bank."

Jon sighed heavily, dropping his head for a moment. "Doesn't matter what I say, you know. They all think I'm crazy."

"I've got an open mind," Sam offered. "I read your initial statement, and a couple details interested me."

"Yeah, I bet," Jon muttered. He was silent for several seconds, then looked up to pin a fierce gaze on Sam. "Did you come here to determine for yourself how nuts I am, or are you going to actually listen to what I've got to say?"

Sam withdrew a recorder from his inside pocket. "I want to hear your side of the story, Mr. Cooper. There are several details that don't make sense."

"You can say that again." Jon nodded at the recorder, and Sam switched it on.

"Mr. Cooper, you worked at Security National Bank in East Chicago, correct?"

"Yes. I worked there for almost fourteen years, six of them as bank manager."

"Could you describe to me what happened the night of August the 4th of this year?"

"Nope." Jon gave him a sardonic smile. "I can't."

Sam frowned. "Why not?"

"Because I was basically in a coma on August 4th, thanks to a massive force-fed overdose of Halcion." Jon waited for Sam's reaction to that, evaluating, so Sam kept his expression open, curious. Jon nodded once and continued, "My part in this started August 3rd."

He sighed and leaned back on the bed. "August 3rd, that was a Tuesday. I'd stayed late at the bank, needed to finish some paperwork on two major business loans before morning, and everyone else had gone home. I left around a quarter to eleven, let Don the night guard know I was leaving. Went home, parked in my garage, entered my house and made sure the alarm was armed. I was just pouring myself a drink when I heard a noise upstairs. I went to go investigate. That's when I found a guy in my closet."

"What happened?"

"He had a golf club, a seven iron, and hit me over the head with it." Jon tilted his head, parting his hair to show Sam the small ragged scar on the top of his head. "When I woke up, it was early morning. I was tied up, and . . . he . . . that thing . . ." he trailed off, uncertainty on his face. "I don't know."

Sam met his eyes encouragingly. "What happened, Mr. Cooper?"

Jon shook his head. "I . . . look, this is the reason I've been locked up in here, okay? Because I thought I saw something impossible, and, well . . ."

"Now everyone thinks you're crazy?" Sam offered, and Jon nodded heavily. "Mr. Cooper – Jon," Sam leaned forward, looking him straight in the eye. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. I promise, I won't think you're crazy."

Jon scrutinized him for a long moment, then sighed with an air of defeat. "I saw . . . the guy was . . . shedding. Like a snake. His skin was coming off in chunks, and he was pulling them off, and it was . . . melting, or something. The smell . . ." He swallowed hard, eyes distant and vaguely horrified. "He peeled his entire face off, and flushed it down the toilet! And his bones . . . it was the most disgusting thing I ever saw!"

Sam fought to keep the apprehension off his face. "Then what happened?"

"When it was done," Jon made a face, "it grew a new skin. Really fast, like watching a Chia Pet on a time-lapse. Except this time, it looked like me. It put on my clothes, did everything I normally did in the mornings to get ready for work, like a freaky out-of-body experience. Then it noticed I was awake."

Jon closed his eyes with a wince. "I have occasional insomnia, so I kept a prescription of Halcion for when it got too bad. He, the . . . thing, it got my meds out of the cabinet, crushed the whole bottle of pills into a glass of orange juice, and made me drink it." He looked at Sam desperately. "I tried not to! But it held me down, pinched my nose shut. I spit some out, but I swallowed enough to knock me out." He shook his head. "Next thing I remember is waking up a week later in the hospital on a respirator, and the cops waiting to arrest me for robbery and assault."

He sat back with a sigh and stared defiantly at Sam. "So, crazy story, right? Think I'm delusional?"

Sam regarded him a long moment, thinking furiously. This was exactly the kind of case he'd been dreading for the last two years, and had foolishly hoped would never cross his desk. How the hell could he explain this one?

The guy was telling the truth, and, like it or not, wasn't crazy at all. The truth was double-edged, though, because it was easier to believe that one guy had gone a little nuts, rather than the culprit being a supernatural creature. Unfortunately, there wasn't anything he could do to help Jon Cooper without earning himself a room down the hall here.

Maybe it was slightly cruel, to give him hope, but Sam felt obligated to return truth for truth.

"No sir. No, you're not."

*~*~*~*~*~*

Sam was reading through his notes on the witness interviews when his phone buzzed. Glancing at the display, he smiled to see Deb's number flashing. "Hey pretty lady."

"Don't start with that shit, Sam," Deb warned, but the warmth in her voice took the bite out of the threat. "You busy?"

"Not really. You got something for me?"

"Yep."

Sam waited a second, but when she refused to elaborate he rolled his eyes to himself. "What do you have, Deb?"

"All the surveillance videos you requested, cued up and ready to watch," came the prompt reply.

Sam stood immediately, shoving his notes back in the file folders and gathering them up. "Great! I'll be right down."

"Bring popcorn," Deb ordered, then hung up.

Glancing at Morgan, who appeared to have overheard and gave him a nod, Sam hurried toward the stairs. Deb's computer lair was two stories below ground level, and required him to pass through three security checkpoints before he could reach her door. Tapping in their pre-arranged knock, he peeked in with eyes closed. "Deb, you decent?"

"Am I ever?" she shot back. "Get your ass in here and close the door."

"Yes ma'am," he teased back, letting the door swing shut behind him as he crossed over to where she sat in front of a bank of video monitors. Each was frozen on a grainy static image, time-stamped in the corners.

Deb swiveled around in her chair to grin up at him, gray eyes sparkling behind her glasses. "Took you long enough."

Sam couldn't resist smiling back at her; he never could. There was just something so infectious about her smile that never failed to cheer him up. Maybe it was because at only five foot one, with thick curly hair and pixie features that made her look much younger than she was, Deb was just too cute to stand. But just like a kitten, that cuteness came with claws.

"Not my fault they have you ensconced under six layers of security. The guard even took away the popcorn." Sam sighed theatrically, only to whuff as she drove an elbow into his side.

"Liar," she declared. "Now I can see why you never date. You're a terrible liar."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Sam asked, baffled.

Deb shot him a mock-pitying look. "Sometimes women need to be lied to. We know it's a lie, but we appreciate you trying to make it look like you're not lying."

Sam shook his head. "And here I thought women appreciated honesty." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he bit the inside of his cheek, stifling the remembered pain those words brought.

Deb raised her eyebrows at him questioningly, but when he just gave her a bland look in return, she turned back to her monitors. "Anyway, to business. Agent Henriksen sent over six videos – four banks, two jewelry stores. Which would you like first? Chronological?"

"Yeah." Sam pulled up a chair and plopped down next to Deb, sorting through the files until he found the right one. "Okay, first up is First National Bank in Columbus, robbed March 15th by Taylor Russel."

Deb nodded and pushed two buttons. The screens flashed and switched to show multiple camera angles around a bank, mostly centered on the counters and the vault. They watched in silence as the bank closed, the tellers counted up their tills and locked everything up, then left as the guards started their rounds. Around 9pm, according to the time-stamp, Sam caught movement in the corner of one screen. "Wait, there."

Deb paused the image, zoomed in, then played it forward in slow-motion. A man matching Taylor Russel's photo crept in frame, stopped in front of the vault, and after a few seconds swung the heavy steel door open. He ducked inside, out of camera range, and closed it mostly behind himself, just before the guard came around the corner.

Deb snorted. "Just think. If that idiot had noticed the door was ajar, this would've been over long ago."

Sam frowned as he watched the guard wander obliviously past the vault with no more than a cursory check. "Now that's just sloppy," he said, disgusted. "Stupid rent-a-cops."

The guard exited out of frame towards the front doors, and two minutes later Russel came out of the vault, two large duffle bags over his shoulders. He closed and locked the vault behind himself, then hurried back the way he came. Deb followed him, switching camera views as they watched him leave out the back, resetting the alarm as he did.

Sam frowned. "Wait." He leaned forward, trying to see better. "Deb, can I?" He waved a hand towards the video controls.

"Touch my equipment?" She shot him an arch look. "Just remember, you break it, you bought it."

He gave her a tolerant look as he rewound a few seconds, then played it again, slower. "Here, look." On-screen, Russel paused and looked up the corridor, as if listening, and in the process looked almost directly at the camera. His eyes flashed white.

"What's that?"

"Huh." Deb shooed his hands away from the controls and took over, replaying it frame by frame. It did it again, eyes flaring a blank white that blocked out the pupils. "Could be a camera flare, but . . . that doesn't really look like one."

Sam stared at the image, feeling his heart sink. Anyone else would probably dismiss it. Unfortunately, Sam wasn't anyone else. He'd seen this before.

Deb was suspicious when they noticed the same phenomenon on the second tape, and by the third she knew something was weird. "Okay, there's no way that's a camera flare," she declared, gesturing wildly at the screens all showing the same anomaly. "It's impossible."

"What is a camera flare, anyway?" Sam asked.

"Basically, it's spare light not related to the image bouncing around inside the camera lens," Deb explained, frowning at the screens as she adjusted and checked several images. Two clicks reversed the contrast on one screen, showing the teller from the Springfield National Bank emptying out the drawers. The flare was still visible. "But it usually requires a very intense light source in order to be this significant on film, like the sun."

She brought up the video of Monroe Jewelers and zoomed in on the head buyer cleaning out the display cases, vivid spots of blood from the security guard on his shirt. Slowing the playback speed, she advanced it frame by frame for a minute. "Camera flares are usually a problem with backlighting, such as in landscapes, and then they show up as fogging or streaks or geometric patterns on the film. Here, there should be no camera flare."

"Why not?" Sam leaned forward to examine the image, taking in the details of the scene. "Not a strong enough light source?"

"That too. There are no lights that are aimed anywhere near the security camera, let alone one that would cause this distinct an image." Deb tapped his head. "But there's something else. Think about what I just said."

Sam rewound her last few words as he watched the video. On-screen, the buyer tilted his head down, up, looked over, then glanced up, all with those freaky white eyes. "Oh. A camera flare wouldn't be that specific to the eyes."

"Exactly." Deb smiled at him with satisfaction. "The camera is stationary. If it was really a camera flare, it would be around his whole head, or stay in one place as he moved his head. The same anomaly directly on the eyes from different angles? I don't know what it is, but it's not a camera flare."

*~*~*~*~*~*

Ensconced safely in his small Georgetown apartment later that night, Sam spread the files out across his kitchen table and popped open a beer, staring down at the surveillance stills Deb had printed off for him. Six different security systems, six different cameras with varying light sources, angles, and resolutions, six separate and unrelated employees – and all of them had the white flare for eyes.

Deb had taken the tapes to run some checks on them, making sure they weren't tampered with and to see if she could determine if it was something else causing the flare. Sam knew there was nothing wrong with the tapes. What was wrong was on the tapes.

Despite himself, Sam couldn't contain his curiosity and reluctantly brought up a search engine on his laptop. Within minutes he had descriptions and lore on all manner of shape shifting creatures.

He quickly ruled out evil twins, skinwalkers, doppelgängers and vardøgers. The most likely culprit was a shapeshifter; exactly what kind and what it was, Sam didn't know. But they were humanoid, and they could be killed.

Sighing, Sam put down the bottle and rubbed his face, trying not to remember the last time he'd seen this. Five years ago, St. Louis, was one of the worst points in his life.

_It was March, a gorgeous sunny spring day in California. Jessica was wearing his engagement ring, he'd just found out about his acceptance into Stanford Law on a full ride scholarship, and Sam felt on top of the world. Spring Break had just begun, and they were driving down to see Jess's family for a day before meeting up with friends in Santa Cruz._

_They'd just stopped for gas when Sam's phone beeped with a new email from Rebecca Warren. At the news that Zach was being charged with his girlfriend's murder, Jess met his eyes, nodded and said she'd call her parents to apologize._

_That evening after a rapid change of plans, they hopped a plane out to St. Louis. Rebecca had been understandably upset but happy to see them both, hoping that somehow someone could help Zach. Once she mentioned that Zach could only have done it if he was in two places at once, Sam's radar went off. After a little careful cajoling, she admitted she had copies of the surveillance tapes and let him view them. _

_That was the first time he saw that eye flare._

_One person in two places at once, and with those eyes . . . Sam knew it was something supernatural, some kind of creature. A dark double or doppelganger, something which assumed another form to prey on others. But that wouldn't help Zach's case at all to claim that his evil paranormal twin did it. He had to find this thing._

_Briefly his fingers itched for his phone, to call Dad, to call Dean . . . but he suppressed that urge. Dad wouldn't answer, and Dean, well, after the way they'd parted last fall, he doubted Dean would want to see him. It would be the worst hypocrisy to refuse to help Dean with Dad, then turn around and expect Dean to come help him with his friends._

_The next day, Sam overheard a news story about a guy who beat his wife half to death, but claimed it was someone else in the house. His first instinct was to go out and investigate, talk to the neighbors, the police, the wife. Except he wasn't a hunter anymore. He was Sam Winchester, engaged law student who had nothing to do with the supernatural. So instead he went with Jess and Rebecca to see Zach, to talk to the lawyers, then out to eat._

_Sam never could have predicted just how badly things blew up two days later. Sam and Jess cuddled on the couch with Rebecca, all three watching the news when they announced a breaking news bulletin. There was another attack, down the block. The guy got away, but the girl was alive and able to give the police a sketch. _

_Sam remembered staring at the screen in shock, white noise in his ears almost drowning out Jess's surprised, "Hey, isn't that Dean? Your brother?"_

"_Can't be," Sam managed. It couldn't be. Dean wouldn't attack innocent people. It had to be the creature . . . but how'd it look so much like Dean? Was Dean in town, hunting this thing? Did he know Sam was here? Sam desperately wished for a police scanner right then. He wanted to know what was going on, how the manhunt was progressing, what kind of leads the police had. _

_The news didn't relay any more details, and Sam chafed at how frustrating being normal was when he needed information not normally accessible by the public. Jess tried to get him to talk about it, about the possibility that it was Dean, but Sam shut her out. He couldn't talk about it, not now._

_The next morning Rebecca got a call from the lawyers about a new development in Zach's case, and slowly the story unfolded. The guy had been hunted back to his lair in the sewers, where the cops found him dead with two gunshot wounds in his chest. They also found bloody clothes, pictures, and victims' personal possessions displayed like trophies, leading the police to believe that this unknown guy was a serial killer._

_Given they'd found Zach's clothes stained in Emily's blood along with the murder weapon in the guy's lair, the police took another look at Zach's story. With the physical evidence, they determined that maybe the tape was tampered with, and Zach was innocent. He was released later that day._

_Sam went with Rebecca to go pick Zach up from the police station, while Jess stayed back to organize a little coming home dinner party. Zach emerged from the holding area with shadows in his eyes, looking worn down. Rebecca hugged him tight, then tried to lead him out to the car. Zach stopped halfway to the door. "Wait."_

_He looked over at Sam, eyes sorrowful and angry. "I want to see him. The guy who killed Emily. I need to see him."_

"_Zach, I don't think that's such a good—"_

"_Okay," Sam interrupted Rebecca, putting a supportive hand on Zach's shoulder. "I'll go with you."_

"_Sam!" Rebecca glared at him._

"_Look, the guy killed his girlfriend. Let him have this closure."_

_She crossed her arms over her chest. "Is this about what Jess said?"_

_That hit him like a sucker punch, and he had to close his eyes and breathe out to settle himself. "Becky, please."_

_She shook her head, but relented. "Fine. Find out where he is."_

_The coroner's office was in the next building, and a sympathetic officer escorted the two men down to the morgue. The medical examiner on duty raised his eyebrows at the request but located the right drawer and slid out the slab. He put one hand on the shroud and paused. "Ready?"_

_Zach gave a quick nod, and the ME drew the sheet back._

_Sam locked his knees to keep them from buckling, breath catching painfully in his chest. It was Dean. The spiky hair, the defined features, the old scar on the top of his shoulder from a run in with a black dog . . . the two red gaping bullet holes in the chest._

_No. It couldn't be. This couldn't be Dean. It had to be the creature, the shifter thing, because this could not be Dean._

"_Know who he is?" he heard Zach ask as if from far away._

"_Nope. No ID, no fingerprint match. Doubt we'll get anything off DNA either. Just some psycho drifter." The ME shrugged._

"_The police shot him?" Zach asked, staring down at the body with a stony expression._

_The ME shook his head. "Someone shot him, but not the police."_

_Sam looked askance at him. "How do you know?"_

"_Because he was dead a while before the police found him," the ME said, then looked around for a second before leaning in with a conspiring air, "and the cops said they shot at someone else down in the sewers. Thought they hit him, but he got away." _

_Sam kept his face still as he glanced back down at the body before he turned away, unwilling to look at the thing with his brother's face anymore. It couldn't be Dean. He walked out of the morgue without looking back. Tonight he would try calling Dean's cell, to make sure he was all right._

There was no answer. Sam had never heard from Dean again.

With the clarity of hindsight, Sam could see that as the turning point in his life. The lawyers couldn't help Zach at all, except to offer him a plea bargain that would send him away for most of his life. The police could, though, if only they knew what to look for.

Sam spent the flight back to Palo Alto brooding over it, ignoring Jess's concern turning to irritation. He originally wanted to become a lawyer because that was the complete opposite of what John was; upstanding, respectable, held accountable to the law as they upheld it. They had power and the backing to use it, to change lives. It was everything Sam wanted to be, and he was proving himself good at it.

St. Louis reminded him, however, of how much he liked investigating. Researching, interviewing, finding the pieces of the puzzle and putting them together. He loved knowing how things worked, how people thought and acted, what drove them and inspired them. He wanted to _know_, and he wanted to use that to help people. That was one thing that always bugged him about being a hunter. They came in the middle of some tragedy, took down the monster, and left. They rarely did anything for the people left behind, the ones grieving losses and dealing with shattered lives. Many of them never really knew what had happened to them or why.

The seeds that were sown then were what drove him to take a few extra courses, and later to change his career path. Unfortunately, they were also the beginning of the end of him and Jess. She supported him through pre-law and the first year of law school, was willing to accept long hours of work and study. What she wasn't willing to put up with was his continued secrecy about his family and his past, especially as the engagement dragged on toward an eventual wedding date.

About a year after St. Louis, Jess sat him down and asked about Dean, whether he was the body in the morgue. When Sam denied it, and then refused to say why he knew it wasn't, they had their biggest fight ever. She pointed out all the times he'd lied to her and she knew it. The worst part was, she was right. He was secretive and evasive about his family, and didn't even give her a good reason as to why.

She'd yelled at him about not trusting her, that the ring on her finger was a lie because he wouldn't trust her with even the basics about his family. When he told her he couldn't say anything because she didn't understand, Jess had only nodded sadly. "That's right. I don't understand." She tugged the ring off and handed it back to him. "You can give this back to me when you're willing to actually trust me." Then she walked out.

Five months later Sam pawned the ring. He hadn't dated seriously since.

Of course, part of that was because deciding to switch from law to law enforcement didn't leave much room for a social life. Practicing law meant lots of paperwork and drudgery and frustration; so did law enforcement, for that matter, but at least he was a lot more proactive. He knew he didn't want to become a police officer, with their limited scope and jurisdiction, not with how well his family had taught him about the criminal mindset and how they work. He wanted something bigger, something better. That's how he ended up with the FBI, training to be a profiler and field agent.

Sam glanced around his apartment, needing to look at anything but the surveillance stills until he could settle his mind again. Any profiler worth their salt would know with a single look around the place that he was a bachelor without a lot of free time. It was evident in the few personal touches in the apartment, practical utilitarian furniture with a light coating of dust, the bookshelves overflowing with manuals and journals and texts with only a couple shelves of pleasure reading.

Sometimes he wondered, what if . . . what if he had gone with Dean that night? What if he'd told Jess the truth? What if he had stuck with law and become a lawyer? What would his life be like then?

Sam grimaced and drained his beer. It was times like these he hated coming back to an empty apartment.

Shaking himself, he got up to start the coffeemaker. Waxing nostalgic wasn't productive, especially when he had a job to do. He had to figure out a way to hunt down a supernatural creature with the FBI's resources without letting anyone realize that it was supernatural, or blowing his own cover. Too much attention would end up with the wrong questions being asked.

For a second he eyed the phone. He knew he could call someone, such as Bobby or Pastor Jim, for information. They'd probably like to hear from him, and they'd likely have suggestions on how to handle this . . . but no. He wouldn't. He refused to connect himself back to that life.

Sam liked his life too much to risk it over a single damn case.

With a fortifying gulp of coffee, he got back to work on the files.


	4. Chapter 4

The second Sam walked into the J. Edgar Hoover building the next day, Henriksen was waiting for him. He nodded at Sam. "Good. I was just about to call you."

"Why? What's up?" Sam automatically changed direction to follow Henriksen back out to the parking garage.

"Got a call last night. Jewelry store robbery out in Milwaukee that matches our MO. Female employee cleaned out the safe, shot the security guard, then went home, took a bubble bath and dropped the hair dryer in with her. A little digging found a bank robbery three weeks ago that also fits. Looks like our guy's moving north." Henriksen got into a sedan and started it up as Sam settled in the passenger seat.

"Witnesses?"

"To the bank robbery, yes." Henriksen held out a file to Sam, who started scanning the contents immediately. "Milwaukee National Bank. Juan Morales, a teller, comes back to the bank at night, beats the security guard unconscious, then robs the place. Got away with about ninety grand between the cash and the safe deposit boxes he broke in to."

"The Milwaukee field office looked into it?" Sam flipped to the field reports.

"Yep. But they stopped when they found Juan Morales dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head in his home." Henriksen gave a tight smile. "Never found the money though."

"Of course," Sam sighed. "So we're going to interview this . . . Ronald Resnick?"

"Yep. Cleared you with Morgan. Flight for Milwaukee leaves in an hour." Henriksen spared him a glance as they sped onto the freeway. "I want you in on this interview because apparently this guy went a little nuts after the robbery. The shrinks diagnosed Resnick with PTSD."

"And you want to know if I think he's loco or not." It wasn't a question.

"Yep." They spent the rest of the drive to Dulles International Airport in silence, Sam reading through both case files in detail, making mental notes to himself.

Apparently Henriksen wasn't one of those agents who liked to hear themselves talk, because he pretty much ignored Sam during the whole three hour flight to Milwaukee, pulling out a small stack of files from his briefcase and reading through them in silence. Sam glanced at one curiously; when it was clear Henriksen wasn't interested in being forthcoming, Sam went back to his own thoughts.

It wasn't until they were in the rented sedan on the way to Resnick's house that Sam asked, "You working another case?"

Henriksen glanced sideways at him, then at the dash-mounted GPS. "Maybe. Field auditor spotted something suspicious that correlates with a case with forensic accounting. It could be related to this case, or it could be something else entirely. So far it's entirely circumstantial. I'm having my partner Reidy follow up on it." He shook his head and muttered, "This case is driving me nuts."

"I hear you," Sam agreed. "There's a lot that doesn't make any sense."

"Yeah." Henriksen paused, thinking. "You have a handle on this guy yet?"

"Maybe. I've been working on a preliminary profile." Sam gestured at the notes in his lap. "I'm hoping Resnick might give me more to work with."

Ten minutes later they pulled up outside a small house. Sam scanned the area, noticed the floodlights on the porch, the bars over the windows, and what looked like a pinhole camera above the door. Henriksen's eyes narrowed, and Sam could tell he'd spotted the same things. Climbing the front steps, Sam knocked on the door. "Mr. Resnick? Ronald Resnick?"

Immediately the floodlight turned on, and they both shielded their eyes with a wince. Blinking away spots, Sam looked up at the sound of footsteps. The door opened cautiously, revealing an overweight young man with wary eyes.

"Ronald Resnick?" Henriksen asked.

"Yeah. Who're you?" came the reply.

"FBI, Mr. Resnick."

Ronald's eyes narrowed as he surveyed them. "Let me see the badge."

Sam and Henriksen dug out their badges, flipped them open and slapped them against the screen door, displaying their ID cards and badges. Ronald squinted at them carefully, then nodded once. "I already gave my statement to the police."

"Yeah, about that," Sam smiled, open and friendly, "there are some things about your statement we wanted to get clarification on."

"You read it?"

"Yes I did."

"And you want to listen to what I've got to say?" Ronald said suspiciously.

"That's why we're here," Henriksen pointed out.

Ronald sniffed, nodded. "Okay, well. Come on in." He opened the door and led them through a narrow hallway to a cluttered room. Sam blinked; the walls were covered with alien photos and conspiracy theory paraphernalia. He glanced around with a sinking feeling, seeing diagrams and grainy photos and handwritten signs. One glance at Henriksen confirmed their shared thoughts – this guy was nuts.

Ronald gestured them in, babbling. "None of the cops ever called me back. Not after I told them what was really going on. Uh, they all thought I was crazy. So did the Fed who came here yesterday. First off," he pointed his finger right at Sam, "Juan Morales never robbed the Milwaukee National Trust, okay? That I guarantee. See, we and Juan were friends, he used to come back to the bank on my night shifts and we'd play cards."

Henriksen gave him a look. "So you let him into the bank that night, after hours."

Ronald shifted uneasily. "The thing I let into the bank . . . wasn't Juan." He shook his head, struggling for words. "I mean, it had his face, but it wasn't his face. Uh, every detail was perfect, but too perfect, like, you know, like if a dollmaker made it, like I was talking to a big Juan-doll."

Sam scoffed. "A Juan-doll?"

Ronald scowled at him. "Look. This wasn't the only time this happened. Okay?" He handed over a file folder to Sam. "There was this jewelry store, too. And the cops, and you guys, you just won't see it! Both crimes were pulled by the same thing."

Sam flipped open the folder, skimming it quickly. It bore a strong resemblance to the hunting profiles John used to put together, and for a brief second Sam let himself appreciate the work that went into gathering this information.

"And what's that, Mr. Resnick?" Henriksen said, sounding bored.

Ronald grinned and reached over to the messy desk, pulling out a magazine and displaying it proudly against his chest, tapping it with one finger. The headline read BIRTH OF THE CYBERMEN.

"Chinese have been working on 'em for years. And the Russians before that. Part men, part machine. Like the Terminator. But the kind that can change itself, make itself look like other people, like in _T2._ So not just a robot, more of a, uh, a Mandroid."

Henriksen closed his eyes for a second, clearly drawing on reserves of patience, but couldn't keep the scorn out of his voice. "A Mandroid?"

Sam quickly intervened. "And what makes you so sure about this, Ronald?"

Ronald, smiling a little wildly, reached over and inserted a VHS tape into the player and clicked on the TV. "See, I made copies of all the security tapes. I knew once the cops got them they'd be buried. Here." He fast-forwarded, sending a uniformed Resnick and what had to be Juan Morales skittering across the screen. "Now watch. Watch. Watch him, watch, watch! See, look! There it is!"

He paused the tape on a clear face shot of Juan, smiling at something off camera as his eyes flared white. "You see?" Ronald exclaimed, pointing at his eyes. "He's got the laser eyes."

Henriksen glanced at Sam, who gave him a faint nod of acknowledgement.

Ronald stared at the screen. "Cops said it was some kind of reflected light. Some kind of "camera flare"." It was amazing how mocking air quotes could be. "Ain't no damn camera flare. They say I'm a post-trauma case. So what? Bank goes and fires me, it don't matter!" Sam eyed him cautiously as he continued to rant, emphasized by his increasingly frantic hand gestures.

"The mandroid is still out there. The law won't hunt this thing down, I'll do it myself. You see, this thing, it kills the real person, makes it look like a suicide, then it sorta like, morphs into that person. Cases the job for a while until it knows the take is fat, and then it finds its opening." Madly gesturing at a map on the wall, he fixed pleading eyes on the two agents.

"Now, these robberies, they're grouped together. So I figure the mandroid is holed up somewhere in the middle, underground, maybe." He stabbed his finger at a point on the map outlined in red. "I don't know, maybe that's where it recharges its mandroid batteries."

Sam stared intently at Ronald, taking in the manic look and feeling a faint stirring of pity. He really had no idea what he'd stumbled upon. Henriksen made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, then stood slowly, Sam following suit. "Ronald. I want you to listen very carefully. Because I'm about to tell you the God's honest truth about all of this." Ronald lit up, looking pathetically eager.

"There's no such thing as Mandroids," Henriksen said flatly. "There's nothing evil or inhuman going on out there. Just people. Nothing else, you understand?"

Ronald's face fell, like a kid that just learned Santa Claus wasn't real. "But," he stammered desperately, "the laser eyes . . ."

"Only exist in bad sci-fi movies, Mr. Resnick," Henriksen cut him off, glaring. "Look, I know you don't want to believe this. But your friend Juan robbed the bank and that's it."

Ronald blinked a couple times, nearly shaking with rage as he yelled, "Get out of my house! Now!"

"Sure," Sam said calmly. "First things first."

Ronald frowned at him, so Sam elaborated, "We need to remand the tapes you copied. They're classified evidence in an ongoing federal investigation."

"You wouldn't want to be charged with a federal offense, would you?" Henriksen fixed him with a hard look that made Ronald wilt. Watching him gather up the tapes, Sam almost felt bad for the guy. He'd done some good legwork, even though the mandroid idea was clearly crazy.

Two hours later, Sam and Henriksen commandeered a conference room at the Milwaukee FBI field office. They had files and notes spread out over the table in a semblance of order. While Henriksen took a quiet phone call in the corner, Sam cued up the tape to check out the light-flare eyes again.

Henriksen clicked his phone shut and nodded at the screen. "What's that?"

"Not a camera flare, that's what." Sam paused it and glanced at the agent. "All of the security tapes show the exact same retinal reaction to video. No way is that a coincidence. We're definitely looking for the same guy in each case."

"So, what? It's part of this guy's disguise? He a mandroid?" Henriksen layered an impressive amount of sarcasm in the question.

Sam snorted. "Said it yourself, there's no such thing as mandroids. But it is one individual."

"Okay." Henriksen sat in his chair and kicked back, listening attentively. "Give it to me. Who is this guy?"

"Okay, but this is just preliminary. I'll know a lot more if we can attach a face or name to it." Sam took a minute to compose his thoughts, to put himself in this thing's mindset while couching it in understandable terms. Whatever it was, it at least had human drives and emotion, and therefore Sam could understand it.

"Whoever he is, he's smart, dangerous, and well trained," Sam said slowly, eyes slightly unfocused. "He's able to impersonate just about anybody somehow, but only for a day or two. He's probably average-looking, unremarkable, the disappears in a crowd type. Aloof, keeps to himself, lives alone. Anti-social personality, hates people around him, yet he wants at least a facsimile of connection. He's the consummate actor. He enjoys becoming someone else, not just to get the job done, but because it lets him not be himself around others."

"How do you figure that?"

"Look at the care he took in blaming others for these robberies. He doesn't want to get caught, doesn't want the attention. He has a goal, but overt pride is not a part of that. He's not a John Dillinger type. He won't taunt the police or send notes. His pride isn't in getting away with it; it's in not being noticed at all. He doesn't care about personal glory, only in his goals. He's internally focused, couldn't give a damn about what others think about him."

Sam tapped his notes. "His actions demonstrate sociopathic tendencies, completely without empathy for anyone else. He's not clinically crazy, but he is very cold and calculating. He's in it for the money. He doesn't hesitate to kill, but only when necessary. He's not indiscriminate, but he is escalating."

Henriksen looked thoughtful, absorbing the information. "You think he's done this before? Maybe now just stepping up his game?"

Sam nodded. "Very likely. This guy's too good to have been just starting out. I'll bet he's impersonated people before. He likely had a rough childhood, poor, possibly neglected. Probably bullied in school for being poor trailer trash, and nobody stepped up for him. He's invisible to everyone around him, and he's angry about that. He hates those with money and therefore have power over him. That rage manifests cold, controlled, gives him focus and drive, and he's arrogant when he succeeds. Likely started with petty theft, seeing what he could get away with, then escalated. He feels entitled to an extent, that it's his right to take what he was never given."

Sam paused for a second, his words ringing an odd resonance with him. It sounded a little too familiar for his tastes. Shaking that away, he continued, his voice slightly distant. "He won't stop on his own. It's never enough money. But it doesn't mean he'll stick to robbery alone to get it. So far his violence has been calculated, necessary for the bigger picture, but that could change. He won't kill indiscriminately, he's not a serial, but anyone in his way is justifiable casualty to his mind. He gets a thrill by outsmarting the cops. He works alone, has acquaintances but never partners. He considers himself superior to practically everyone."

"Interesting." Henriksen chewed that over for a few moments. "So, how does he impersonate people? It's convincing enough to fool their long-time co-workers."

"Co-workers, yes. But notice that each of the supposed perps have no significant other, no family, almost no one outside of work. No one who knew them intimately, who might pick up on small inconsistencies and confront them. There's a pattern of a few weeks between each robbery, indicating that he's taking the time to scope out his next mark, get to know them and their routines."

Sam tapped the remote. "As for how, I had all the surveillance tapes checked. The initial tech reports indicates that none of them were tampered with in any way. Whatever that flare is, it has to do with the perp."

"If it's not a camera flare, what would cause that reaction?"

"Well, nothing like it was mentioned in witness reports, so I think it has to do with whatever he's using to make his disguise. The video frequency picks it up."

Henriksen made a face. "What, you thinking a hologram or some shit like that?"

"Possible." Sam spread his hands in a helpless gesture, hating having to present something this outrageous and misleading. Well, a hologram was more believable than a preternatural shapeshifting creature that turned itself into anyone it wanted. "When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Too bad Sam's definition of impossible was less rigid than Henriksen's.

"Somehow I doubt Sherlock Holmes was referring to a whack-job with a hologram disguise," Henriksen said dryly.

Sam quirked a smile. "Yeah, well, right now, that's as good an explanation as any. Given that it only shows up on video, it seems likely to assume that it's caused by some sort of gadget. If so, there's nothing quite like it on the market, so it's likely self-invented."

"Tech genius?" Henriksen exchanged disbelief for consideration. "That could explain a lot. Revenge of the nerd, and all that."

"Also explains how he got past security alarms and into vaults that the people he impersonated shouldn't have had access to," Sam pointed out. "An electronic code scrambler isn't that hard to build, with the right tools and know-how."

"Think this guy went to school somewhere then? Brilliant sociopathic MIT dropout turns to life of crime?" Henriksen tapped a pen against a notepad.

"Could be, but it's equally likely that he's a high school dropout who never went to college," Sam told him. "A genius intellect born in a low socioeconomic strata is much more likely to never finish school because it bores him. He despises the system and sets his own goals to challenge himself and change his circumstances, usually by making more money."

"And he wants more of it. He's definitely going to strike again," Henriksen commented. "Where do you think he's gonna go next? Another hit in Milwaukee, or is he going to move on?"

"Hard to say," Sam grumbled, digging for his notes on the timeframe he'd been compiling.

First National Bank and Harding's Diamonds, both in Columbus, four weeks apart. Springfield Central Bank in Springfield three weeks later, then a month and a half before the Brinks Armored Truck was robbed outside Indianapolis. Only two weeks between that and the Central Nation Bank and Trust in Indianapolis, but three and a half weeks until Monroe Jewelers in Champaign. A little over two weeks later, still in Champaign, an armored truck with Midwest Savings & Loan was robbed, the driver killed. Then over a month passed before Security National Bank in East Chicago. Took him three weeks to head up to Wisconsin and hit Milwaukee National Trust. Andersen's Jewelry was robbed three weeks later.

"So far he hasn't stayed in any one area for longer than two jobs, that we know of anyway," Sam said. "If he's still here, I think he's already scoping out his next job." He shuffled through the pages until he pulled out a map that Hodkins had made a few days ago when Sam asked him for help on the files. "Resnick was right about one thing though. The robberies and so-called suicides are grouped together. As in a few streets apart."

Henriksen frowned. "What about the armored trucks? One was hit in practically the middle of nowhere."

Sam smiled thinly. "Yes, the Brinks truck. Except its pick-up point was a savings and loan two blocks away from Springfield Central Bank."

"Damn." Henriksen scanned the maps, marking locations and routes between. "So he's operating from a central location."

"Seems that way, but nothing really stands out as a good location. No hotels or motels, apartment buildings, or unoccupied housing."

"Great." Henriksen looked at his briefcase, chewing on his bottom lip as he thought.

Sam narrowed his eyes at him, wondering what was troubling the senior agent. "What is it?"

Henriksen brought his gaze up and just stared at Sam for a long moment before nodding to himself. Hoisting his briefcase up onto the table, he clicked it open and lifted out an impressively thick stack of file folders and papers. He rapped a finger against the stack of files. "So our guy – smart, arrogant, mobile, calculating, violent, right? He's not new to this, he's too good. So what did he do before he started knocking over banks?"

Huh. Sam hadn't really given that a lot of thought. "He would've started small," he said slowly, thinking it out. "Given his aversion to attention and skills at impersonation, I think he started with petty theft, pickpocketing and what not. He's not a scam artist, not charismatic or social enough to pull that off. But he would've been attracted to schemes that played the system yet kept him anonymous."

"Credit card fraud, maybe?"

"Yeah, that'd work. Apply under fake names, have the bills go to general PO boxes, he could use the cards for a month or two, more if he uses money orders to make a few minimum payments on them, then max out the cash advances, ditch them and get fresh ones." It was times like these Sam was glad John had taught him some of the finer points of scamming money.

Henriksen nodded, smirking slightly to himself. "What about the kinds of people he impersonates?"

Sam shrugged. "Ones that are useful to him. He may have also created fake identities for himself instead of finding someone to mimic. Bonus points if they're also in a position of authority."

"Cops, marshals, federal agents, that sort of thing?"

"Yes, if they get him what he wants." Sam resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably. This was hitting a little too close to areas Sam didn't want to go. The whole damn case had him on edge, and that irritated him even more. He was a federal agent, damn it. He should have better control over this.

"Interesting." Henriksen looked at him a second, then seemed to come to a decision. Splitting the stack of files in front of him into two piles, he shoved one towards Sam. "Take a look at those."

Curious, Sam flipped open the top file and skimmed it. The long columns of numbers didn't make any sense to him, but he noticed the name at the top of the page. "Angus Young?"

"Yep. Take a look at the next one."

Sam raised his eyebrows at that one. "Rick Savage?" He thumbed through the rest, which he realized were credit card statements. "John Paul Jones, Bon Scott, James Hetfield, Tony Iommi? These are all names of rock musicians."

"Yep." Henriksen gave him a tight smile. "Too bad the person using the credit cards with those names wasn't any one of them."

Identity theft and credit card fraud. "Okay," Sam muttered, not liking the direction this was going.

"These," Henriksen indicated the five inch tall stack in front of Sam, "are from a case the forensic accounting department has been working on for over three years. The names caught someone's attention, and since then they've traced linked cases of credit card fraud back almost twelve years. Don't ask me how – it's all geek to me. Anyway, they figure that they've defrauded credit companies almost seven million dollars all told."

He put a finger down on the equally-thick heap in front of him. "Now, these files are reports of impersonation, all over the country. There are some doozies in this one; ATF, CDC, Homeland Security, lots of FBI. Most also have reports of B&E or harassment, but they're all one-time deals."

The senior agent chuckled a bit and shook his head. "Here's where it gets real good. Rookie field auditor got assigned the impersonation cases to cut his teeth on. He's making follow-up calls when the witness mentions she already talked to the FBI, about a stolen credit card. The rookie gets the initiative to track down the assigned agent down in accounting, they compare notes, and find a correlation in places and dates. Damndest thing."

Sam snorted. "Better lucky than good, huh?"

"Yeah. Rookie got all excited, thought he was hunting the next Al Capone. Reported it to his superior, it got kicked up the chain until by the luck of the draw, me and my partner got it." Henriksen shook his head, lips twisting in a moue of disgust. "Problem is, both these cases, they're ghosts. We have the crimes, kind of, but no suspects behind them."

Sam winced sympathetically. He had his own share of low priority cases that seemed like they had only the edge pieces of a larger puzzle, but hunches and instincts weren't sufficient cause for more resources. At least he had his team to help out.

Actually . . . "If you want a second set of eyes, my team's not that busy right now," Sam offered. "And Hodkins was an accountant before he joined the FBI."

Henriksen arched an eyebrow at him. "You think I'm just gonna hand this case over to the BAU, just like that?"

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm not trying to grab credit," he snapped. "Just offering to help. It's still your case, Special Agent Henriksen."

If anything, that only amused the other man. "Okay." He scooted the desk phone closer to himself and picked up the handset. "I'll check it with Morgan. If he wants his whole team on it, I'll have Reidy send over the files."

*~*~*~*~*~*

Sam flew back to DC the next day, as there was really no reason for him to stick around Milwaukee anymore. After fighting through rush hour traffic back into Georgetown,

When he walked into the bullpen in the morning, he noticed that they'd turned one wall into a giant map filled with different colored pins. Hodkins was perusing through several reports while McDowell and Jeffers compared notes and stuck more numbered and color-coded pins in the map.

"What's all this?" Sam asked, staring at them in bafflement.

Jeffers grinned at him. "Hell of a case you got us, Winchester. Great brain teaser. Better than Sudoku."

McDowell elbowed him in the side. "I think you'd better stick to _Highlights_," she sniped.

Jeffers rolled his eyes at her, but Hodkins spoke up before they could continue. "Seriously Sam, you didn't tell us we'd be hunting a modern-day Jesse James."

"What?" Sam shook his head. "I thought you were looking at credit card fraud?"

"Yep, we are," Hodkins grinned at him. "But it's more than that."

"A lot more," Jeffers interjected.

"Okay," Sam drawled, plunking himself down in a chair. "Explain it to me."

McDowell grimaced. "It's long, complicated, and boring, but essentially, the credit card fraud is linked to the impersonation, which is also linked to a whole bunch of other crimes. And possibly to your bank robberies."

Jeffers saw that Sam needed more explanation. "Okay, let me show you." He poked a finger at the map. "Here. Yplansti, Michigan. In December 2008, one of the credit cards on the list was used at a motel, two restaurants, a gas station and a convenience store. At the same time, there were reports of a man posing as FBI Special Agent Bill Ward poking around two missing persons cases, one of which was a clear kidnapping."

"On December 26th, police responded to a concerned neighbor report, and found Madge and Edward Carrigan murdered in their home," McDowell read off a report. "In the basement, they found the remains of at least three other people, with evidence of cannibalism."

"That's sick," Sam made a face. His eyes roved over the map, taking in details. Some pins were isolated, some in multi-colored clusters. Some of the pins were connected to others, tracing paths of individual cards. "So you think it's all connected?"

"Timing fits. Can't get a good description of the guy, other than white, young, and good-looking, so we can't circulate a sketch, but it seems way too coincidental." Jeffers shrugged. "That's only one example. Burkitsville, Indiana is another." He flicked a finger towards a pin stuck in the Midwest. "April 2006, guy shows up, claiming to be Jon Bonham. Supposedly he was looking for some friends of his, but he used a fake credit card to buy gas and food, and the sheriff had to run him out of town for harassing people and disrupting the peace. Two days later, the main orchard supporting the town was burnt to ashes, and three people were reported missing."

"Basically, wherever the credit card trail intersects with an impersonation report, there's another crime or three at the same time," Hodkins summed up, typing madly at his computer. "And it might be the same guy as your bank robber."

He clicked on the larger plasma screen on the side wall and pulled up a map. "Watch this. Red dots are your robberies," they popped up on the screen, tracing over Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Wisconsin. "Now, blue dots are recent fraudulent credit card transactions meeting our criteria. I'll pull them up chronologically." One after another, blue spots appeared – following the robbery trail.

Sam stared at the screen, his heart pounding harder in his ears. "The transactions are within the right time period? And are there any impersonation reports?"

"Yes, and yes." Jeffers pulled up two reports on the screen. "In Champaign and in East Chicago, when agents went to interview employees they mentioned that they'd already talked to the Feds. And," he smiled grimly, "in Milwaukee, a female employee at Andersen's Jewelers gave her phone number to the "dreamy" agent who interviewed her. Which really confused the real agents who had come to get her statement."

"What confuses me," McDowell groused, "is this chronology."

Sam frowned at her. "What do you mean?"

"It doesn't make sense, that's what!" McDowell laid out some files in front of her. "Sam, you're the profiler. You know that people tend to follow patterns. Like the difference between a serial killer and a spree killer, organized and disorganized criminals." Sam nodded, and she continued, "But look at this. It doesn't fit any sort of profile or classification I've ever heard of."

She nudged a crime scene photo. "Here, B&E and vandalism. Then here, a month later, aggravated assault and theft. Here, arson and what could be a homicide. Escalation, right? Then here. A break-in at an empty warehouse and a report of grave desecration. Nothing stolen, nobody hurt. What, he escalates, then slows down? It doesn't make sense."

"You're right," Sam mused, furrowing his brow as he pulled the files towards him. "It doesn't."

"You really think we might be dealing with a serial killer here?" Jeffers asked quietly.

Sam didn't answer him, too preoccupied with a name that popped out on the list. Palo Alto. A credit card under the name Hector Aframian was used to purchase gas on October 31st, 2005, then was used two days later out in Jericho for gas and a motel room . . . where the user was apparently picked up for impersonating a Federal Marshal. Based on evidence found in the motel room, he was considered a suspect in a series of disappearances, and they believed his real name to be . . . Dean.

Sam swallowed hard, mind racing. The timing was right, and it fit. He forced himself to keep reading. The suspect escaped custody and disappeared. No mention of another older man.

"So far it's pretty much circumstantial," Hodkins interrupted Sam's thoughts. "I mean, some of this might not even be related. The descriptions are pretty sketchy. But if so, it's one hell of a coincidence."

"No such thing," Sam muttered, shoving the files back on the table and staring at map, feeling a little sick to his stomach. To everyone else, there was no pattern. But to Sam, it screamed out all too obviously. This was a Hunter's trail. Not entirely random, just driven by circumstance.

For a long moment, Sam let himself entertain the thought that it was Dean. That his brother really was alive, not buried in an unmarked grave in Missouri; that he was out there in the Impala, hunting and blasting his classic rock at top volume. He was surprised at the warm tickle of comfort that thought elicited, which was quickly suppressed by the cold logic that Sam hadn't picked up a single trace of his brother since St. Louis.

Sam shook himself. No matter who it was, they had just made Sam's job incredibly difficult. He was tracking two people now . . . or rather, a Hunter and a shifter.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam commandeered a small conference room for the video call to Henriksen, who was now at the field office in Chicago. The connection fuzzed a bit, static crackling over the audio. Sam shook his head as they finally got it cleared up enough to work. Typical government equipment.

"What happened in Chicago?" Sam asked once they exchanged short greetings.

"Another robbery," Henriksen scowled darkly, "which they didn't report at first because they thought they could handle it internally."

"When?"

"Two weeks before Security National. Little place called Jones Diamond Importers. Family owned, make and sell lots of high end custom stuff. The store manager, Mark Jones, who's the owner's son, came in one night, cleaned out the entire store and the safe, then disappeared." Henriksen scoffed low in his throat. "They wanted to find him themselves, work it out in the family. Well, they found him."

Judging by his expression, Sam was anticipating something messy. "Where?"

"In the closet at home. Looks like he hung himself." Henriksen's lip curled slightly. "'Course, after hanging around in a stuffy closet for nearly two months, things got a little nasty. Mailman complained about the smell, so his sister checked it out."

"Gross. And let me guess, not a trace of the jewels."

"Exactly. That's when they reported it. Figured their stock was worth about ten and a half million dollars." For a brief instant, Henriksen looked slightly envious. Then he was all business. "What'd your team come up with?"

"Something interesting." Sam smiled crookedly. "The robberies might be related to the credit card theft. And murder."

Henriksen nodded slowly. "I had a feeling it might. Can you prove it?"

"Maybe." Sam clicked open a new window and attached his report to an email, then sent it off. "I just sent you a summation. It's a lot of circumstantial evidence, but there's just too much that correlates. Problem is, we still don't have a suspect. We can track his activity, but he himself isn't popping up on the radar. The UnSub is still a ghost for now."

"So how do we change that?" Henriksen asked pointedly, apparently staring at Sam's left shoulder, which meant he was reading the email.

"Hodkins is working with the accounting guys to see if we can get a complete record of his movements. McDowell and Jeffers are trying to get access to the evidence from the other crime scenes. Even without a name, if his fingerprints have been run even once they'll show up on AFIS. And I've been trying to track down Reidy . . ."

Just then the door banged open, and a tall thin man with receding brown hair walked in with a file and a smirk. "Winchester, right? I'm Special Agent Calvin Reidy. Morgan said I'd find you here."

"Hey," Sam nodded at him. "I've got Henriksen on vid call right now."

"Oh good." Reidy shook Sam's hand, then came around the table so he could see the monitor. "Hey Vic, how's it going?"

"Frustrating, as usual," Henriksen said. "You got something?"

"Yep. You're gonna owe me lunch for a year for this one." Reidy held up his file. "Four years ago, Baltimore PD was investigating a double murder. Attorney had his throat slit in his office, no trace of the killer anywhere. A week later, his wife dies the exact same way in their house, except she got off a 911 call. Cops show up in time to catch the guy red-handed at the scene."

"The point?" Henriksen deadpanned.

"I'm getting there. They ran the guy's prints, checked his ID. Had some priors on his record; assault, B&E, arson, and, this one's weird, grave desecration. Possible fingerprint hits on another dozen crime scenes. But get this – the credit card was flagged as a fake, so they started a back-trace. Connected him to three other cases of identity fraud." Reidy grinned. "One of which is on our list."

He pulled out a rap sheet with a flourish and held it up to the screen. "Meet Dean Harrison."

Sam's eyes caught on the mug shot and for a second his heart seemed to stop. _Oh fuck_.

_Dean._

"So you think this is our guy?" Henriksen demanded, not realizing Sam's heart was about to leap out his chest. "What happened in Baltimore?"

"Guy escaped custody. Two homicide cops went after him, but only one came back. She claims her partner was the killer; apparently he'd been involved in heroin theft and redistribution. He killed the lawyer to cover it up, and confessed to her because he was going to blame everything on Harrison and kill him. Harrison happened to be in the wrong place, wrong time. She objected, he tried to kill her, and Harrison escaped during the struggle. Evidence supported it." Reidy shrugged.

"But that was four years ago. That doesn't tell me where he is now," Henriksen growled.

"Gives us a face and a name, Vic. That's a helluva lot more than we had this morning," Reidy pointed out. "I'm having the mug shot faxed over to you now."

Henriksen nodded. "Sam," he barked, and Sam jumped a bit, startled from the stunned stupor seeing Dean's face had brought on. "Do a background check on this Harrison guy. I want to know everything about him, from when he was born to what he had for lunch today."

Sam nodded, not quite ready to trust his voice, and hoping he didn't look as rattled as he felt.

He needed coffee.

A few hours later, Sam had moved beyond shocked to downright pissed, with a little reluctant admiration thrown in for good measure. As far as the system was concerned, Dean Harrison had absolutely nothing in common with Dean Winchester, besides an uncanny physical resemblance.

Dean Harrison was born in Toledo, Ohio, to a William and Kelly Harrison, who both died before Dean was two. An only child, he was raised by his aunt Ellen who lived pretty much off the grid out in Nebraska. From what little he could glean from county records, Dean was home-schooled until the age of 16, whereupon he took off. There wasn't a whole lot on him personally in the system. A Kansas driver's license, but no car listed. Spotty job history, mainly as a mechanic and handyman, marked the next few years.

His criminal record was a lot more interesting, though. Starting in 2006, he started getting picked up for a variety of offenses: Breaking and entering, theft, arson, several assaults, menacing, harassment, resisting arrest, and grave desecration. That last one sealed it for Sam, looking over the complaint report: grave dug up, coffin broken in to and the body torched. It wasn't some sick necrophile – it was a Hunter putting down a spirit.

Which meant it was Dean. Maybe. But if it was, where was Dad in all this?

Things got serious in 2008 and later. Baltimore was only the tip of the iceburg. His fingerprints matched almost two dozen possible hits at different crime scenes, several of which tallied with the trail they were recreating with the credit cards. Partial prints were found in an auction house which was broken into and robbed, in an apartment where a girl was later shot to death, on the doorframe in a house where five decapitated bodies were discovered, and more. Suspected for many crimes, he'd only been picked up a handful of times, and so far he'd never spent more than a night in jail, always skipping town the next day.

Dean Winchester, on the other hand, disappeared off the radar completely after 2005. Not hits on social security number or driver's license, no fingerprints, no job, address, or phone. For all intents and purposes, he vanished – or became someone else.

Sam leaned his elbows on his desk and rubbed his face wearily. Maybe it was naiveté or just wishful thinking, but he never thought he'd ever have to hunt down a Hunter, let alone Dean. He knew their family wasn't exactly on the up and up, but over the years for the most part they'd managed to stay under the radar, moving on when scrutiny got too intense. Why did that have to change now?

He supposed he should be grateful that there was nothing linking Dean Harrison back to Sam Winchester. That would be . . . trouble. As it was, he let himself admire for a moment the master work that went into creating the Dean Harrison record. It all looked perfect; if he hadn't known better, he'd never have guessed it was complete manufactured bull.

They were expecting him to use this background to build a more concrete background, figure out what he would do next, how he would react. Sam stifled a snort. Profile his brother . . . once upon a time, he knew more about Dean than anyone else in the world. All the little quirks and habits, the minutia that details the whole person into an individual. Growing up together and living in each other's pockets tended to make that inevitable.

Now, though, with eight years of separation, of life changes and different places, he wondered if he would even recognize Dean any more. How much was left of the brother he once know, and how much was a complete stranger to him?

His phone rang, startling him. Glancing at the number, he answered it, "Special Agent Winchester."

"Sam, it's me," came Henriksen's voice. "We've got a problem. Girl at the jewelry store in Milwaukee recognized Dean's picture. He was there two days ago."

Sam straightened up, all senses instinctively coming alert. "What? Why would he go back there?"

"You're the profiler, you tell me," Henriksen snapped. "What's important is that he's likely still in town. I want you and Reidy to fly up there tonight. I'll finish up and meet you there." He heard a car door slam. "We need to catch this guy, Sam. Before he kills someone else."

*~*~*~*~*~*

Reidy was a much more pleasant travel companion than Henriksen was, but Sam wasn't in the best mood to appreciate it. It was his turn to bury himself in his work, skimming reports and making notes to himself. Something felt . . . off, about the pattern they were building. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, though.

As soon as they landed and deplaned, Sam took the opportunity to stretch, reaching high until his back made a satisfying crack. He loathed flying coach; they never had near enough leg room for him. Reidy gave him a knowing look as he shouldered his own bag, then led the way toward the pick up area.

They'd barely reached baggage claim when Henriksen suddenly appeared beside them, face taut with stress. Reidy frowned in response. "Vic?"

"Just got the call. Bank robbery in progress. City Bank of Milwaukee." Henriksen glanced at Sam. "He's got hostages."

Sam muttered a soft curse under his breath. What the hell was going on here? "Sure it's our guy?"

"You know as much as I do right now." Henriksen hurried them towards the exit, but Reidy suddenly pulled up short. Henriksen shot him a look. "Reidy?"

"It's him," Reidy said softly, and Sam followed his gaze – and froze.

Several of the TV monitors around the concourse were tuned to news channels, and right now every single one was covering the bank robbery. Someone had just come out of the bank, escorting an older security guard at gunpoint, apparently releasing the hostage. He glanced around at the gathered SWAT team, angling himself slightly behind the hostage to discourage any shots as he yelled at them to get back. The cameras zoomed in on the man – Dean.

For a long second Sam drank in the sight of his brother, clearly alive and well, if visibly tense. Then rage crashed through him, obliterating the relief. What the fucking hell was Dean _doing_?!

"Let's go!" Henriksen said, snapping Sam back to his surroundings. He flushed; he really had to quit zoning out like that. Quickly matching pace with the two agents, they raced for the car and tore out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires. Speeding down night-darkened streets, Henriksen clicked on the police scanner, listening for a status update. Shots had been fired, one man was down inside the bank, supposedly the gunman. One of the hostages had taken over the situation.

"What?" Henriksen frowned heavily.

"What the hell's going on with this guy, Winchester?" Reidy asked. "He's never been this blatant before."

"I don't know!" Sam protested. If he had to guess, though, he was pretty sure that Dean had caught the shifter's trail and tracked it to the bank. But how it all turned into a hostage situation, Sam had absolutely no idea.

"Why's he switching MOs? Got impatient? Got caught? He's improvising?" Henriksen thought aloud. "Maybe he was casing the place and something spooked him."

"I. Don't. Know," Sam gritted out

Within twenty minutes they pulled up outside the bank, the street clogged with emergency vehicles, police trucks, news vans, and curious onlookers. Henriksen scowled at the camera lights all around, but got out of the car and shrugged on a light windbreaker with FBI emblazoned on the back in yellow, an air of command settling over him with it. He led the way to what had to be the command module; Reidy and Sam followed close.

The cops inside grimaced as soon as the three agents climbed inside. Sam ignored it; it was a common reaction among local police whenever feds showed up. "Lieutenant Robards?"

A weathered middle-aged man nodded reluctantly. "Yeah?"

"Special Agent Henriksen," Henriksen introduced himself, his body language commanding and confident. "My partner, Special Agent Reidy, and Special Agent Winchester."

"Let me guess," Robards said dryly. "You're lead dog now, but you would just love my full cooperation."

"I don't give a rat's ass what you do, you can go get a donut and bang your wife for all I care," Henriksen shot back. "What I do need is your S.W.A.T. team locked and loaded."

Robards' face tightened in annoyance. "Listen, _Agent_. Something's not right about this. It's, uh, it's not going down like a usual heist."

"That's because it isn't one. You have no idea what you're dealing with, do you? There is a monster in that bank, Robards."

"What the hell you talking about?" Robards glanced at the screens showing all the external camera feeds on the bank. "The gunman's down."

Sam moved into Henriksen's view, and waited for the barely-there nod before asking, "What exactly happened?"

Robards sighed and gestured at the tech guy, who immediately started messing with his controls. "Guy came into the bank right before closing time, armed to the teeth, locked himself in first thing. Got the call about a bank robbery in progress when an outside security guard noticed the chain on the door. At least ten confirmed hostages. We surrounded the building, got snipers posted all around, then cut the power."

The tech looked up. "These are the last feeds from the security camera before we cut power." Sam leaned over his shoulder, then groaned at seeing first one, then two familiar faces.

"Ronald Resnick," he answered Henriksen's questioning look. "He locked the doors, took everyone hostage. Looks like he has an assault rifle. Dean was already inside."

"Wonderful," Henriksen rolled his eyes. "Just what we need, a conspiracy theory nutbag and a serial killer in one building." He asked Robards, "Your snipers take down Resnick?"

"Had to. He was aiming that cannon at a civilian, and we had a clean shot." Robards shook his head. "Whole thing's hinky as hell. We managed to get him on the phone earlier. Said he didn't have any demands, wasn't there to rob the bank. Called himself a crime fighter and confirmed he was acting alone, then asked for a paramedic for one of the hostages before he hung up."

"So Dean took advantage of the situation to take over, and now he's locked in there, armed and alone with a bunch of hostages." Henriksen shook his head. "That's not good." He snapped his fingers at the tech. "Call inside again. I need to talk to him."

The tech glanced at Robards, then picked up the phone and dialed before handing the handset to Henriksen. Silence descended over the group as they waited, listening to the distant ring.

After the eighth ring, there was a click as someone picked up, the volume loud enough for everyone to hear. "Yeah?" Even rough and muted over a phone line, Sam could recognize Dean's voice anywhere.

"This is Special Agent Victor Henriksen."

"Yeah, listen, I'm not really in the negotiating mood right now."

"Good. Me neither," Henriksen interjected. "It's my job to bring you in; alive's a bonus but not necessary."

"Whoa. Kinda harsh for a Federal Agent, don't you think?" The surprise and confusion came through loud and clear.

"Well, you're not the typical suspect, are you, Dean?" A soft intake of air, and Henriksen pressed his advantage. "I want you out here, right now, unarmed. Or we come in."

"How'd you even know I was here?" Dean asked.

"Go screw yourself, that's how I knew," Henriksen retorted. "It's become my job to know about you, Dean. I've been looking for you for weeks now. I know about the murders up in Michigan, I know about the Houdini act you pulled in Baltimore. I know about the desecrations and the thefts. I know about your family."

"You don't know crap about me," Dean growled back, and Sam fought back a shiver. He'd never heard his brother sound so dark.

"You wanna come out here and discuss it?" Henriksen let a cold smile cross his face. "You have one hour to make a decision or we come through those doors full automatic."

A second's pause, then a click and a dial tone. Unperturbed, Henriksen put down the phone and turned to Robards. "Scramble your men. Five minutes, then we go in."

"What? Henriksen, he's let out one hostage so far," Robards pointed out. "He's hurt no one as far as we can tell."

"As far as you can tell. You don't know this guy. He's smart, dangerous, and has already killed at least five people that we know about."

Robards stepped closer as he insisted, "We can't risk the lives of all those people."

"Trust me, Dean's a greater risk to them than we are."

"This is crazy."

Henriksen paused and looked Robards dead in the eye. "Crazy's in there. And I just hung up on it."

Sam scowled; he hated the automatic assumption of crazy, even more so considering it was Dean. But if it got Robards to cooperate, he'd bite his tongue.

Robards rolled his eyes but acquiesced. "Fine. Five minutes. You wanna go in with them, go talk to the captain over there." He pointed out a shorter man in SWAT gear who seemed to be in charge outside.

"Thank you." Henriksen jerked his head, and Sam and Reidy filed out of the trailer first. An SUV had pulled up outside by their car, and two men with FBI jackets waited for them. Reidy and Henriksen shared a look, then Reidy walked over to the agents while Henriksen headed for the SWAT captain. After a moment's indecision, Sam followed Henriksen.

"Captain?" Henriksen called out, and the guy turned, took one good look at him, and immediately bristled. Sam rolled his eyes. Great, a threatened alpha ready for a pissing match.

"SWAT Captain Art Sigriccia," he clipped out. "And you are?"

"FBI. Special Agents Henriksen and Winchester."

"I got your order. We'll be ready to go in four minutes. Snipers are covering all egress points, and we've already chosen our entrance."

"Good. I won't interfere, Captain. I just wanted to let you know that we're coming in with you." Henriksen's tone brooked no refusal.

Sigriccia's face tightened, but clearly decided it wasn't worth the effort to argue, not on such a short schedule. "Fine. You'll go in after Team Alpha clears it."

"You have a visual on the suspect?"

"Negative. He's good, stays away from the window, any outside sight lines. We have seen some of the hostages though – looks like he's having trouble keeping them in one place."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Do not underestimate this guy," Henriksen warned before he turned away.

Aggravated, Sigriccia called after him, "Hope you brought vests."

They hadn't, but the agents from the Milwaukee field office had. In short order Sam found himself in a bulletproof vest, gun loaded and holstered, watching as the SWAT guys counted down before shattering the plate glass window to one of the offices. The first three teams went through cautiously, guns at the ready.

Seconds clicked past agonizingly slowly, and Sam found himself holding his breath until the radio clicked, "Clear."

The team updated their progress as they searched the building, the radio clicking and hissing.

"_Found one of the hostages. She's unharmed. Escorting her out now."_

"_Found a body! Third floor office. No sign of the suspect."_

"_Found three hostages. They're unharmed. Phil, escort them out of here."_

"_Second and third floors secure. No sign of the suspect. Heading downstairs now."_

The next team went in with the police and the FBI agents right behind them. Sam held his Sig-Saur in both hands, low at his side with the muzzle pointing down as he carefully stepped over the broken glass into the darkened building. Except for the noises of the people around him, it was almost eerily silent. He fought to calm the instinctive adrenaline rush as his nerves clanged _danger._

They crept along toward the office where the first body lay, listening as the lead team continued to update their progress.

"_Got a body down here, lobby. It's the first gunman."_

"_I'm at the vault. The rest of the hostages are inside. They appear unharmed."_

"_What the hell is this mess? Some sort of slimy goo on the north stairwell."_

"_Body down in the boiler room, and Captain? It's not pretty."_

Henriksen snarled to himself at that one, then let the stone-faced mask slip on again as they reached the office. An officer standing guard on the room glanced up at them. "Male, African-American. Goner."

That was pretty obvious. The guy lay dressed only in his skivvies on the crushed remains of – Sam glanced up to confirm – ceiling panels, his throat slit deep. Henriksen shook his head and walked out of the office, heading down the hallway towards the stairs, radio crackling as the SWAT team cleared the building.

Sigriccia came up behind Henriksen as he reached the vault area. "Sir? My team said it's secure. He's gone."

"You tell your team to tear it apart. The ducts, the ceilings, the furnace, everything," Henriksen snapped, nearly vibrating with rage.

"I don't think that's necessary."

"Why not?" Henriksen demanded. Sigriccia motioned for him to follow, and Sam fell into step right next to Henriksen. The next floor down, Sigriccia indicated a small storage closet guarded by one of his men. Inside, two men lay unconscious and handcuffed back to back. One was dressed in SWAT gear, minus his helmet, but the other was stripped to his underwear.

"He snuck out," Sam stated unnecessarily, ignoring Henriksen's furious glare. His mind worked frantically, analyzing, pulling together time frames and likely moves. Suddenly he turned to Sigriccia. "Where's the nearest parking garage?"

Sigriccia frowned, but answered, "Next block over, about two buildings down. Why?"

Sam didn't bother to answer before he sprinted away, following the signs to the emergency exit door on the street level. He slammed into the door, which spilled him out into an alley. Looking both ways to orient himself, he turned left and headed for the parking garage.

First level didn't show any movement, so Sam leapt for the stairwell. As he climbed, he suddenly heard an engine turn over with a throaty roar characteristic of older cars somewhere above him. Panting, he pushed himself to go faster, taking the steps two and three at a time.

He emerged on the third level just in time to see a big black car streak past him. Sprinting out to the middle of the aisle, he automatically pointed his gun at the rapidly receding car but held his shot, knowing it wouldn't do any good. The driver's head was barely visible through the back windshield, not enough for an ID. Sam squinted, trying to read the license plate, but the car hung a sharp right and headed down the ramp, disappearing from view and leaving just the afterimage of the tail lights in his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

"What the hell was that about?" Henriksen demanded the second he stepped back into the bank.

Sam shrugged. "Following a hunch. Quickest getaway is by vehicle, and the closest vehicles that could exit unnoticed were in the parking garage."

"And?"

"I was right. But he got away." Sam clenched his jaw, hating the disapproval coming off Henriksen in waves. It wasn't his fault! "He's driving a big black car, sedan, looked like late '60's model muscle car. Couldn't get the plate number."

Henriksen turned away, already pulling the radio to call in a BOLO on the car. Sam sighed heavily and headed downstairs, wanting to walk through the scene once before the forensic guys got there. He spared a glance for the now-shrouded body of Ronald Resnick, dark trails of crimson on the white cloth and floor surrounding him. Poor bastard. He really should have known better.

The SWAT guys were right; the piles of goo on the stairs and in the bank manager's office were really disgusting. Sam crouched down, using a pen to pick up a piece to examine it closer. A little bit of blood, what looked like skin, and lots of whiteish clear effluvia and connective tissue. Huh. And the one in the manager's office had some clothes by it. Jon Cooper's description suddenly made more sense. Maybe when the shapeshifter changed its skin, it shed.

"Is that from his victims?" one of the SWAT guys wondered, disgust coloring his voice.

"What would make you say that?" Sam asked him, pinning him with a hard look.

"Did you see the body down in the boiler room?"

While the guy upstairs had his throat slit, the girl downstairs . . . Sam swallowed hard when he saw her body. Dressed in only a silky slip, she lay slumped upright against the wall, with one leg at an odd angle, a bloody arm, and a blade stuck deep in her chest.

"Damn it," he muttered.

One of the officers there nodded solemnly. "I'd hate to be the one to break the news to her sister." At Sam's questioning glance, he elaborated, "I escorted a woman out earlier, one of the bank tellers, looked exactly like her. Must be her twin sister or something."

That was the first good news Sam had heard all night.

Resisting a smile, he knelt beside the body of what he was sure was the shapeshifter, inspecting it closer. The murder weapon looked like a letter opener, probably from one of the offices upstairs. Sam would bet good money that it was silver too.

"See this?" the officer from the stairs said, pointing at a slimy thing on the floor. It looked like . . . skin. Sam focused on her arm, wanting to touch but not daring to risk it. The arm was a mess, but there was much less blood than he thought at first glance. It was raw and bloody, but there was definitely more of the same type of goo as upstairs.

"What've we got?" Henriksen asked as he stepped into the room, Reidy at his shoulder.

"Female, Caucasian, young. Stabbed to death," one of the officers immediately spoke up. "Looks like he was in the middle of skinning her too."

Reidy gagged slightly, but Henriksen's face only got harder. "Winchester, with me."

Sam stood up, knees popping, and followed Henriksen down the hall. When they were out of earshot, Henriksen whirled on him. "What the hell is going on? You told me he only killed out of necessity. So tell me, what's so necessary about skinning one of his hostages?"

"I told you that as part of a preliminary profile on an UnSub, based on the information we had at the time," Sam hissed back, frustration boiling over. "Remember? When we thought we were only dealing with a bank robber? We only got a name yesterday. Hell, I still haven't completely finished his background."

"Well, you better," Henriksen said softly, stepping right up into Sam's space. "Because three people are dead here, and at least part of that's on you."

Sam jerked back, feeling like he'd been slapped. "How do you figure that?!"

"You misread this guy. We still don't know exactly what kind of psycho we're dealing with, except that he's a sadistic fuck. And you let him slip through your fingers in the parking garage." Henriksen held his incensed gaze for a handful of heartbeats. "Get back to work. We've got to hunt down a serial killer."

*~*~*~*~*~*

Sam wasn't sure who he hated more right now, Henriksen or Dean.

In the four weeks since the Milwaukee incident, the case had been officially handed over to the BAU team, with Henriksen attached. Sam had the feeling that he was allowed to stay with the case less out of professional courtesy and more because he was too proud and stubborn to let something like this go. As Reidy put it, "It's the kind of case that can make your career . . . or give you a raging ulcer."

Henriksen had become damn near unbearable, and most of the team let Sam deal with him. Still piqued over his perceived failure and Henriksen's disdain, Sam worked his ass off, tracking down every lead he could, trying to prove that it was over now and possibly explain Dean's role. Problem was, the more they dug, the less things made any sort of rational sense, and his skills as a profiler were useless. There was no logical (i.e. non-supernatural) reason that fit the facts, and they all felt like they were banging their heads against a brink wall.

Sam found himself walking a very delicate balance. Hunter's instincts, long thought buried, flared up nice and bright, his brain accessing all the lore he'd accumulated over the years and done his best to forget. As his profiling and agent skills faltered, the Hunter side became more demanding, driven by his innate urge to know and understand. He knew what was going on, but no FBI agent with a single shred of dignity would dare mention, let alone believe in, a supernatural explanation.

He had to chose his words carefully now, monitoring exactly what he said, not letting anything that could be perceived as strange loose. He hadn't had to do that since his first semester at Stanford, suddenly thrust among all these people in a foreign culture and needing to make friends. It reminded him of _1984_ and doublethink/doublespeak. That book creeped him out, and he despised that he had to resort to that hypocrisy now.

Of course, with the Hunter/prey and vigilante theories shot down, the only other remotely plausible explanation was a stark raving lunatic serial killer. That's the one they settled on by default, despite Sam's objections and evidence to the contrary. His initial observation of the culprit being one person had come back to bite him in the ass now that they had one person to focus on, and Henriksen's obsession with finding Dean only grew.

"You have anything?" Henriksen barked as he crossed over towards Sam's cubicle.

"The teller, Sherri, was telling the truth."

"About which part? The killer who saved her life, or her twin who didn't exist? She's nuts."

"Scared, yes. Nuts, hardly." Sam bit back a sigh and held up a piece of paper. "One birth certificate for a Sherri Golgos, born June 12th, 1985 in Brookfield, Wisconsin. Single live birth. No twin, sister or otherwise. Checked with the hospital and the doctors just in case, and they're positive that Laurie Golgos only gave birth to one child that day. She was telling the truth. Whoever that woman in the bank was, she's not related to Sherri." Sam jerked his head to the next cubicle. "McDowell's got something."

McDowell glared at him, but cut the intensity when Henriksen turned his attention to her. "Preliminary results from DNA came back."

"About time."

"They were double-checking just to be sure," McDowell snapped. "The woman in the bank is a near match to Sherri Golgos."

"So it _is_ her sister, or cousin, or freaky identical yet distant relative?"

"No. Near match in that they _think_ it's human."

Henriksen shook his head. "What?"

"None of the tests are coming back within set parameters. After ruling out contamination, they thought it was a problem with the nucleotide bonding pairs. They did some NAT testing, then PCR for a footprint comparison, but turns out the phosphodiester bonds were completely —" McDowell cut herself off at the glare Henriksen shot her, and switched back from geek to English. "The DNA isn't normal."

"What on this case is?" Jeffers put in, lounging back in his chair.

"The way the lab explained it, it's unstable. The DNA structure on the samples is wrong, which makes it very prone to breaking. The more time passes, the more it breaks down into free nucleotides." McDowell shrugged, uncharacteristically shy. "Human DNA doesn't do that. Not living, anyway."

"And there's more," McDowell said, retrieving another sheet of paper. "The two puke-inducing piles of goo? Have the same genetic anomaly."

"They all came from her?" Jeffers made a face.

"Nope. The one on the stairs tentatively matches our dead guy. The one in the manager's office matches the bank manager."

"Who was found at home, dead of a supposedly self-inflicted gunshot wound hours before the robbery." Sam let his head fall back with a sigh. The shifter did shed when it changed. Okay, one more piece to the puzzle that only he could see.

"Yet at the same time, he appeared on the security cameras at the bank, hard at work. Employee statements confirm he only disappeared once Resnick chained everybody in," Hodkins pointed out.

"And their bodies show no sign of this genetic aberrance," McDowell concluded.

"Seriously, what the hell?" Henriksen sighed heavily, rubbing at his temples. "Okay. Forget the bank. Any new leads on Harrison?"

"Not really." Sam waved a hand toward the map, now with more pins and a few whiteboards propped up around it. "No hits on the BOLO, no credit card checks, nothing. He's gone. We've been backtracking, trying to find a pattern. Found a couple more places he's been, though, and there may be witnesses that saw something useful."

"Witnesses? Or more converts to the cult of Dean?" Henriksen groused. Sam huffed softly, glad he hadn't gone with Henriksen on the last couple interviews. "I really don't get that. He's a loner, a killer, interested in the occult, likes to dig up graves and mutilate corpses for kicks, yet he leaves behind all these people devoted to him."

"Maybe he's not a killer," Sam pointed out for what seemed to be the umpteenth time. "Nobody's actually seen him kill anyone. If anything, they all think he's some kind of hero."

"You really believe that?" Henriksen fixed him with a dead-eye stare, and Sam forced himself not to react. The others ducked back into their cubicles, ostensibly getting back to work even as they listened to the oft-rehashed argument.

"You know as well as I that not all the evidence points to him," Sam said, deliberately calm. "He doesn't seem cut and dry guilty. I think there's something more here. The evidence supports him being a vigilante better than your theory of a psycho killer."

"Vigilante. Right. So, what's he targeting?" Sam held his tongue, irritated frustration bubbling around the edges of his composure. "C'mon Sam, every vigilante has a target. What's he going after? What justice is he looking for by mutilating corpses and slitting throats?"

At Sam's continued silence, Henriksen scoffed. "I think we've all seen the quality of your opinions." He glowered at Sam. "Tell me. Do you want to catch this dirtbag or not? 'Cause right now it sounds like you're making excuses for him." He stood, still glaring.

"Find him," Henriksen ordered. "He didn't just vanish." With that, he walked out of the bullpen, hopefully to go find someone else to terrorize.

Sam glared at the photo of Dean outside the bank they had pinned up on the wall. Henriksen was an overbearing obsessive ass, but it was Dean who had kicked down the wall between his world and Sam's, and completely mangled Sam's carefully ordered life.

*~*~*~*~*~*

The places Sam liked to go to drink after work depended on why he was drinking. The team usually headed for a sports bar or a pub close to the Metro line, like Kelly's, but avoided the traditional cop bars. Those were fun times, just unwinding a little bit after a hard case or long week, and he never had more than two beers unless he was celebrating something.

Tonight, Sam was alone, and he was strongly tempted to get himself completely plastered.

Staring down into his glass of whiskey, he swirled it around slightly, watching the light refract around and through the amber liquid. A comparison to witches scrying flittered through his mind before he banished that thought and took a drink. It was thinking like that that drove him to this dive bar in the first place.

Over two months had passed since the debacle in Milwaukee. The good news, the only good news, was that there hadn't been another robbery. But that was massively overshadowed by the looming mountain of unsolved cases, all pointing directly to Dean. Who, after a very brief appearance out in Idaho, had utterly disappeared. Again.

Sam scowled. His brother the psycho killer. At least as far as the FBI was concerned, that is, because no one really wanted to believe he was a vigilante on a holy crusade to rid the world of monsters. He certainly wasn't going to tell anybody. Of all the rules John had tried to drum into Sam's head, the one that really stuck was Hunting Rule #1 – we do what we do, and we shut up about it.

He'd never told anyone about what his family did, not even Jess. He hated hunting, all the ugly things that came along with the sucky job, and the way it made him an outcast, a freak. He'd worked so hard to appear perfectly normal, nothing really strange about him that would invite questions. He fought tooth and nail to separate himself from them, forging his own path.

His family had always held him back, moving around, switching schools every few months, forcing him along on a ridiculous war. It was a miracle he'd ever graduated high school. John had thought bow hunting was more important than homework, that doing extra PT was a viable excuse for not studying for a test.

Even after he left, it didn't get much better. He fudged on his interviews, had to be creative on his applications without straight up lying, gradually creating this protective bubble between him and the life he'd left behind. He spent nearly three years lying to Jessica about his past, always avoided mentioning anything pertaining to life before college. Some nights he still ached for her . . . but he'd rather not be with her than see her repulsed by him, or worse, call him crazy.

Now he wondered if it was only a matter of time. His family was like the ghosts he'd once helped hunt and put down – always cropping up at the most inopportune moments, scattering everything in their wake in a fit of destruction.

Sam threw back the last of the whiskey and slammed the glass down, gesturing for a refill. He hated thinking about the family business.

Today had been a bad day. Henriksen was in a foul mood after another series of supremely unhelpful interviews out in Colorado, and after being forced to go with him this time, Sam wasn't any better. Hodkins had made a connection between Dean Harrison and a series of killings in St. Louis, except the supposed perp in that case was dead. They'd exhumed the grave yesterday, only to find a gelatinous puddle instead of a corpse in the casket. Henriksen had taken that as confirmation that Dean had faked his own death and ordered them to dig deeper.

The worst part was when Jeffers had proposed that maybe Dean Harrison was yet another alias, and promptly sent Deb into a hacking frenzy. Sam stood there, heart in his throat and praying desperately that whoever Dean had paid to forge his record was better than Deb.

Part of Sam's dilemma came from examining the cases they'd connected back to Dean, and he was sure actually were his work, not whatever he was hunting at the time. While many were typical Hunting behaviors, some of the crimes were unusual, out of pattern and undeniably violent. Like torching the orchard in Indiana, or the home invasion in Missouri, or attacking an off-duty officer in Ohio.

He'd started to wonder just how well he knew his brother. Dean had always been heavily involved in hunting, enjoying it on a visceral level that Sam just couldn't understand. He knew the violence he was capable of, but always assumed it would only be unleashed towards a deserving target. But now he wasn't so sure.

Why hadn't John popped up on the radar for so long? Did Dean ever find him? What if – it hurt to even think this – what if something had happened to Dad? Was Dean on his own? Did he blame Sam for not coming with him?

It had taken Sam a long time to work past the long-held hero worship of his brother. When he stepped back and analyzed Dean rationally, some things he'd never really acknowledged came out. Like how Dean needed people, needed his family, and wanted to be needed. He craved approval, especially from Dad. As anti-social as he could be, Dean hated being by himself.

If something had happened to Dad, and Dean was alone, Sam knew he could have crossed some lines. Dean modeled his life after Dad; without him, he was tailspinning, and his first reaction when stressed was often violence. What if Dean really was killing people, not just monsters?

Sam shook his head and dug into his wallet for some money. This wasn't helping anything, and now he was just drunk and morose. Time to go home, pour himself into bed, and wake up tomorrow to keep hunting his brother.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Sam looked over the boards yet again, eyes sweeping the familiar patterns. It was all there, right in front of him – yet it was useless. He could show where Dean had been for most of the last five years, but ever since Milwaukee, Dean had simply dropped off the face of the earth. No new leads, no credit card hits, no hits on the BOLO, nothing. Just another trail going cold.

Growling, Sam stomped back to his desk for his wallet. "I'm going for coffee," he announced. Thankfully, none of the others requested anything, simply nodding at his departure with an almost palpable sense of relief. He scowled but said nothing more as he headed for the stairs, tempted almost to run down them heedless of the risk; anything to work out this simmering frustration.

By the time he reemerged in the bullpen, steaming latte in hand and his mood slightly more settled, there was a new tension in the bullpen, a crackling anticipation like just before lightning struck. Sam paused, narrowing his eyes as he looked around at his team. Body language spoke volumes: McDowell's hunched shoulders, Hodkins' refusal to meet his eyes, and Jeffers' determined fixation on his computer, face taut.

Sam was about to ask when Morgan's voice boomed from the walkway. "Winchester! With me, Now!"

Grimacing, Sam left his coffee on his desk and approached his supervisor, a heavy sense of dread in his heart. Morgan led him upstairs, fury in every line of his body, and Sam wracked his brains as to the cause. No new leads, but Morgan wasn't the kind to wind himself this tight over a case, no matter how frustrating.

In thick silence they reached the office of Deputy Director Groves, and Morgan opened the door, motioning him in first. Warily Sam stepped inside, nodding at Henriksen, who was already seated, and Groves who stood by the window. "Winchester," Henriksen smiled, a cold thing with no humor.

"What's this about?" Sam asked, reluctantly sitting next to Henriksen as Morgan stood, arms crossed, by the door.

"Funny thing just came up," Henriksen said casually. "Think we finally figured out why this case has been such a goatrope."

Groves sauntered over and propped his hip on the edge of his desk, tapping a folder with one finger. "Tell me, Sam . . . just when were you going to tell us that Dean is your brother?"

Sam froze, an icy pit yawning open in his stomach. _Oh shit._

"Deb finally managed to dig up our suspect's real background. Turns out Dean Harrison is actually Dean Winchester, older brother to Sam Winchester. Looks like he paid someone to cover that up, right around the time he was reported dead in St. Louis. There were good, too – hacked into AFIS and the Social Security office, even modified birth certificates."

Henriksen leaned forward, eyes boring into Sam. "Which would not have taken so damn long if you had told us as soon as you knew."

"When was that, anyway?" Groves asked casually. "The witness interviews, the crime scenes . . . or did you know from the start and have been helping to cover his tracks?"

Sam shook his head, swallowing hard through his tight throat. "Milwaukee," he muttered thickly. "The news cast."

Henriksen and Groves exchanged a look, but it was Morgan who spoke up next. "Yet in the three months since that, you never found the time to share that piece of information."

"Look, I haven't seen my brother in six years. I thought he was dead," Sam blurted out desperately. "We were working a case involving impersonation, near exact look-alikes. I didn't know if it was really him." Even as he protested, he knew it was a flimsy excuse. Judging by the looks directed at him, they all knew it too.

Turning away from the painful disappointed expression Morgan had, Sam tried to plead his case with Henriksen. "Victor, how much have I helped out on this case? You'd still be chasing shadows if it wasn't for me. I proved it was one man, I found the video anomalies, I told them to cross-reference the credit cards with cell phone accounts. I helped link this whole thing together. I want to find him as much as you do."

"Because he's a killer? Or because he's your brother?" Henriksen asked pointedly. "Yes, you've helped. But you let him get away from you in Milwaukee. You had us chasing our tails in Colorado. We didn't find out about Boise until too late. Oh, and let's not forget the fact that you didn't tell us he was your damn brother!" He nearly yelled the last part, and Groves made a calming motion in his direction.

"Sam, no matter what, this looks bad. A case of this magnitude, and we've had the suspect's brother working on it the entire time? Not a good reflection on the Bureau. You may have compromised everything." Groves let out a heavy sigh. "Sorry Sam, but your actions will have serious consequences."

"Like what?" Sam asked, tense.

"You lied on your application, Sam. You said you didn't have a brother. That alone requires termination of your employment," Morgan told him.

"Oh, and there's more. You've interfered with a federal investigation. Withheld crucial evidence on an on-going investigation, which counts as obstruction of justice, and used your position here to conceal evidence pertaining to the pursuit of a felon suspected of heinous crimes." Groves smiled thinly. "Lots of big words that come down to, you're fired, and we're taking you into custody."

Henriksen examined him like he was contemplating how best to pull the wings off an insect. "You're going to give us a statement, Sam. If you're cooperative, you might just lose your job. Or we could charge you with all those, plus tack on aiding and abetting, maybe even felony accessory after the fact."

"What? That's ridiculous!" Sam protested, adrenaline spiking as the words sank in. "I had nothing to do with any of this!"

"No? You've lied to me for the past three months. Why should I start believing you now?"

"I didn't lie! I just . . . didn't tell you everything." Sam winced at those words and the futility of his protests. It was over. With a heavy sigh he stood, carefully removed his holstered gun and his badge and put them on Groves' desk.

"Security is going to take you down to interrogation now. Play nice." Groves nodded at Morgan, who opened the door to call a couple security guards in.

Henriksen stood right in front of Sam. "You know, after we linked the two of you, I had them dig deeper. Looked into your family. Mom dying in a house fire, that was tragic. Reading about your father, now, that explained a lot. Ex-marine, raised his kids on the road, cheap motels, backwoods cabins. Real paramilitary survivalist type. He taught you and your brother well. Brainwashed you both real good, made Dean into his perfect little soldier. But you, you broke out of the crazy. Went off on your own, became a fed. Nice and respectable."

Sam stared stonily at him. "This have a point?"

"Nobody's seen or heard from John Winchester in over three years. Just _whoosh_, vanished, without a trace. Me, I think he trained Dean a little too well, held the leash a little too tight. Without you in the picture, Dean was free to take care of that." Henriksen paused for effect, inching a little closer to Sam, getting right into his face. "So this is what I don't understand. Why would you risk everything you've accomplished for a psychopath who probably killed your father?"

A red haze blocked out his vision. Sam didn't remember making the fist, but he definitely remembered the feel of his knuckles smashing into Henriksen's face. Damn that felt good. He got two more hits in before someone grabbed his arms from behind and threw him to the floor. Breathing hard, Sam relaxed his muscles, silently acquiescing as they snapped the cuffs on him.

Henriksen climbed somewhat unsteadily back to his feet, thumbing at the blood running from his nose and lip. "Now we can add assaulting a federal officer on that list of charges you're facing." He nodded at the security guards holding Sam down. "Take him to Interrogation Room 3."

They hauled Sam up by his elbows and frog-marched him out the door. Last thing he saw before the door swung shut was Henriksen's dark glare.

As he followed his guards towards the elevator, Sam's mind was working in overdrive, trying to process everything, to formulate a plan. His life here was over. Everything he'd worked so hard to attain, gone in a heartbeat. All because he didn't open his mouth and admit Dean was his brother.

Sam closed his eyes as rage swelled up in him again. This was so unfair! He didn't do anything wrong, and now he'd probably end up in jail. Because he had an idiot for a brother.

_NO._

He let out a long slow breath, mind crystal clear. Okay. He knew what he had to do.

His fingers drifted over the handcuffs on his wrists. Standard Smith & Wesson model, not fastened too tight, just enough to restrain him. Letting his lips twist upward slightly, he got to work.

The Bureau had good internal security, but Deb had complained before that some of the cameras weren't placed in the right spots. Sam surreptitiously glanced around, noting the small black orbs in the ceilings, mentally calculating sight lines. Seven steps ahead, the corner before the elevator had a blind spot.

Sam counted down, twisting his wrist slightly and letting out a small cough to cover the click of the handcuffs. _Three . . . two . . . one . . ._

A small stumble knocked his shoulder into the guard on the left, sending him momentarily off balance. Sam twisted out of their grasp and swung, planting his elbow into the side of the other guard's head. He ricocheted off the opposite wall and went down with barely a squeak, unconscious before he hit the floor.

The first guard had enough time to yell, "Hey!" before Sam slugged him in the gut, folding him over with a pained _whuff!_ A hard blow to the back of the neck dropped him senseless next to his partner.

Sam glanced around, but no one was in sight. There was a door just to the right of the elevator, probably a service area. He popped the lock in thirty seconds and dragged both guards in, then shut the door and relocked it behind him. One obstacle down, but now the clock was ticking.

Calm as you please, Sam got in the elevator and pushed the button for the parking garage, praying he made it before they locked the building down. A small ding signaled in the affirmative, and he exited, walking rapidly as he scanned the vehicles. He rarely drove his car in to work, hating the morning traffic jams and preferring to take the Metro when possible. But now, with speed of the essence, he needed a car.

Picking a suitably non-descript Volvo with no car alarm, he jimmied the lock and slid in. It had been years since he'd last hot-wired a car, but thanks to a memorable summer spent learning the intricacies of it from Dean, he found it was like riding a bike. A minute later, he drove smoothly out of the garage and turned towards his apartment.

He had to move fast. He gave himself twenty minutes to throw what he needed in a bag, withdraw what money he could from his bank account, and get out of the city. Any longer and he risked Henriksen and the police catching up to him. He'd have to ditch the car and find new transportation, avoid public areas and anyplace with surveillance cameras. After that . . .

He clenched his fingers around the steering wheel until the knuckles blanched. He had to find Dean.


	7. Chapter 7

It was a minor miracle that Sam escaped pretty much undetected. Not that he was feeling very thankful at the moment, holed up in a crappy motel in the middle of nowhere with newspapers spread across the bed and floor, his only earthly possessions stuffed in a beat up duffel bag.

After spending a few days covering any tracks he may have made that Henriksen could follow, Sam focused on catching up to Dean. To his chagrin, it was taking him a while to stop thinking like a fed and remember how to hunt. He forgot there were some resources he couldn't access anymore, some information that he wasn't allowed to get, and Dean's trail had been long cold before he'd set off after him.

In desperation, Sam had called Pastor Jim's, only to learn that the pastor had killed almost four years ago, and the new guy, a Pastor Baker, had never heard of Dean Winchester.

Next he tried Bobby's place, where a gruff voice answered, "Singer Salvage Yard."

"Bobby Singer?" Sam asked.

"Who's this?"

"It's Sam, Sam Winchester."

There was a long pause on the other end. "Whatcha want, kid?" Bobby finally asked.

"I know, Bobby, it's been a long time. I was just wondering, have you see Dad or Dean lately? I need to find them."

This time the pause was so long, Sam wondered if he'd hung up. Eventually Bobby sighed. "Son, I know you're with the FBI now. I know you're part of the task force huntin' Dean down. Everyone knows."

"Bobby, it's not about that." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "And what do you mean, everyone knows?"

"Hunters talk, is all. Worse group of gossipy biddies I've never known. And Dean makin' the eleven o'clock news as a bank robber and you outside with the SWAT team, well, that gave 'em lots to talk about."

"Yeah, I bet," he muttered. "Bobby, please. I wouldn't have called if I wasn't desperate." He winced, abruptly realizing how that sounded. "Uh, sorry, I didn't mean . . ."

"I know." Soft noises on the other end of the line, Bobby moving around as he thought. "You ain't looking to arrest him?"

"No, Bobby, I'm not. But I need to find him." Sam pumped every ounce of sincerity he could into his voice.

"Y'know, you damn near broke his heart. That boy's done a lot to try and keep this life away from you. He didn't like it, but he respected your decision."

Sam bristled at the censure in Bobby's voice but bit his tongue. Without Bobby, he literally didn't know where to even begin looking, so it wasn't a good idea for him to antagonize the man defending himself.

"Ah, hell, kid. Fine. Dunno where your daddy disappeared off to, haven't heard from him in near two years. But Dean, he called 'bout ten days ago, from down in New Mexico. Cimarron, think he said. Was dealing with a chupacabra. Didn't say where he was headed next, but that's the last I know."

"Okay," Sam sighed in relief. "Thanks Bobby."

"Yeah. And Sam? Talk to your brother." Bobby hung up.

"Oh, I plan to," Sam murmured as he put his phone down.

Cimarron, New Mexico was a couple states away, but Sam doubted Dean was still there. In ten days he could have driven cross-country twice. At least it gave him a place to start.

It took Sam another week to get a good line on Dean, searching through newspapers trying to find potential jobs that his brother would check out. He had to cut out of town fast once when he spotted the sheriff giving him a more-than-curious glance; with the nearest FBI field office only twenty miles away, he wasn't taking chances.

Eventually, after three states and a completely accidental run-in with a water wraith that nearly drowned him before he fought his way out and came back that night to banish it, Sam got lucky in Dolores, Colorado. He stopped at a tiny truckstop diner for lunch, and flashed Dean's picture around to the waitress and cooks.

The waitress, who looked to be sixty if she was a day, smiled at the photo. "Yeah, I saw him. Young guy, cute, came in here yesterday afternoon all alone. Sat right over there to have coffee and pie. Hard to forget him. Smile that that, he could charm the rattle off a snake."

Sam smiled at her, flashing his dimples. "Did you happen to see which way he went?"

"Yep. He was looking pretty tired, so I told him that if he was looking for a place for the night, Cortez has a couple nicer hotels. It's just eight miles or so down Railroad." She nodded vaguely southward toward the main road. "He thanked me and left."

Sam slipped an extra ten in her tip and left, anticipation lengthening his stride as he headed for his latest car. Dean was close, he could feel it.

He found him at the second motel. Or rather, he found the Impala. Pulling up on the opposite side of the parking lot, Sam shut off the engine and just stared at the car, reveling in the sudden rush of warmth at the sight of it. It was definitely Dean's Impala, the one he'd basically grown up in. Okay. Sam took a deep breath and let it out, settling the butterflies in his stomach.

An hour later, checked into a room of his own, freshly showered and changed into one of his business suits, Sam walked across the parking lot. Hesitating alongside the car, he glanced around for a second. Cautiously he ran his hand along the still-sleek lines of the Impala, palm tingling at the familiar touch. This car had once been home to him, home and safety and warmth curled up in the backseat with Dean, Dad's music low over the sound of tires on asphalt his lullaby.

The Impala meant Dean was here, right inside that door, and Sam was abruptly and viscerally aware that this was the closest he'd been to his brother in over six years. Well, no reason to put this off any longer. Taking a deep breath and habitually straightening his coat, Sam stepped up and knocked on the door.

Bed springs creaked, slow footsteps, and he held his breath when he felt eyes on him through the peephole. Time dilated, feeling like an eternity passed as Sam waited to see if Dean would open the door to him. Finally a rattle of safety chain and solid thunk of the deadbolt retracting preceded the door opening, and Sam felt like he could breathe again.

Dean stood framed in the doorway, suspiciously appraising him. Sam took the opportunity to examine him in return, his first real look at his brother.

It shocked him.

In his memory, Dean was larger than life, handsome, cocky, tough, and more often than not with that damn smirk firmly in place. The whole time the FBI was tracking him, that memory fed off comparisons to John Dillinger and Jesse James, giving him an almost mythic quality.

This man before him, though, bore only a passing resemblance to that memory. His hair was chopped short and had a greasy look, as if unwashed for a while, and there was at least two days' stubble on his jaw. The eyes were sunken and slightly bloodshot, dark shadows underneath emphasizing the pallor of his skin and the vivid red line of a scar running down the right side of his face from forehead to jaw.

Once lively and sparkling, Dean's green eyes now were flat, shadowed, a blank mask to Sam. He was thin, thinner really than was healthy judging by the way his clothes hung off his frame, and what muscles Sam could see were whipcord thin, stretched taut like piano wire. _Who are you, and what have you done with Dean?_ was on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them back. He had no right to ask that.

Silence yawned between them, growing bigger and more awkward the longer it lingered.

Dean broke it first. Out of nowhere, his fist rammed into Sam's face _hard_, sending shockwaves of pain through his head. Sam staggered back, blinking away stars as his cheekbone throbbed hotly. Belatedly he brought his hands up to fend off another blow, but none was forthcoming. Instead, Dean turned on his heel and disappeared back into the room.

Except he didn't shut the door. Sam wavered, rubbing gingerly at his cheek. Did that mean . . .?

"You just gonna stand there?" came the rough familiar voice, and Sam swallowed hard before walking through and shutting the door behind him. The room was shadowed, but enough light came from the bathroom light and around the curtains to let them see each other.

"What the hell was that for?" Sam asked, working his jaw around gingerly.

"Lots of reasons. That was long overdue." Dean cleared his throat, a sandpapery rasp that made nearly Sam flinch. "So, FBI guy, what brings your polished ass to my neck of the woods?"

"Uh, well," Sam scratched the back of his neck, unsure and feeling a decade younger. "I kinda . . . tracked you down."

"Obviously." Dean snorted, crossing back over to the bed and sitting down wearily. "Took you long enough," he muttered, unscrewing a flask and taking a quick swig.

Sam frowned. "Dean, it's three in the afternoon."

"So?" Dean pointedly didn't offer him some. "Again I ask, what are you doing here?" He craned his neck as if looking out the door. "You bring your posse with you?"

"What? No!" Dean arched an eyebrow, that ugly scar twisting in counterpoint. Sam blurted out, "How've you been?"

Dean's mouth quirked in a self-deprecating smirk, but not a hint of humor touched his eyes. "Just peachy, Sammy," he drawled, spreading his arms wide. "Look around at my comfortable accommodations, the fine food and outstanding service at this delightful establishment. It's been all this and a bag of chips since you left." Shaking his head, he dug around under the bed with one hand and pulled out a half-empty bottle of whiskey. "How the fuck do you think I've been?"

Sam gritted his teeth, irritation flaring hot and jagged inside him. "Well, you look like shit," he said bluntly, fingers itching to snatch the bottle away.

"Language, Sammy."

"It's Sam." Sam planted his feet, claiming a spot by the door and figuratively digging in. He came here for a reason, and he couldn't let Dean rattle him any more. "And no, no one's with me. You wanna know why? Because I'm not with the FBI any more."

Dean frowned. "What? Why?"

"Because of you, Dean! You really think they wouldn't eventually find out that Dean Harrison was really Dean Winchester, who just happens to be related to Sam Winchester? Oh, and by the way, a suspected serial killer!"

"They shouldn't have. I paid Ash enough." Dean took another slug of whiskey.

"That all you have to say?" Sam demanded. "I just lost my fucking job! They tried to arrest me! All because you couldn't keep your stupid face off the eleven o'clock news!"

"That was four months ago," Dean said. "And you just lost your job now?"

"Took them that long to crack your alias."

"And in all that time, you didn't bother telling them yourself? Sell me out, claim you had no idea what I was up to, get immunity or whatever shit and keep your job?"

"What was I supposed to tell them, Dean? 'No sir, my brother's not a serial killer, he just hunts monsters'?"

"He's not the Messiah, he's a very naughty boy!" Dean mocked, chuckling to himself. Sam made a disgusted noise and changed tracks.

"Dean, where's Dad?"

Dean immediately shut down, turning his face away. "Dunno."

"Dean . . ."

"I don't."

"Huh. And why don't I believe you?" Sam goaded. "C'mon, surely sometime in the last six years you tracked him down."

Dean stood and glared at him. "Yeah, I did. And I did it without your help too, college boy."

"Good. Know what I've been up to without you? Having a life of my own. Not being Dad's lap dog, come running every time he calls. I made it through law school and the Academy without either of you. I was helping people too, you know. But I earned my badge."

"And you lost that badge," Dean shot back. "While you had your head stuck in a book, I tracked Dad down. Oh, and you wanna know what else? We found the thing that killed Mom."

Sam startled, thrown off balance. "What?"

"Yeah. It was a demon. A high level demon with yellow eyes. Evil son of a bitch, had killed a lot of people, burned more than one mom on a ceiling. But Dad and I, we tracked it down. Dad couldn't have done it on his own. He needed me. Where the hell were you?"

"Dad needed you?" Sam scoffed. "That why he abandoned you? Yeah Dean, he left you. Just took off on his own, and left you behind like he always did. And yet you still follow him everywhere, like a whipped dog."

He made a show of looking around. "Where's he now, Dean? Huh? He still 'need' you?"

Dean choked a bit, face flushing red. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he reopened them, they were filled with ice. "You really want to know, Sam?" he asked quietly. "You wanna know what happened to Dad? Fine."

He fixed Sam with an unwavering gaze, voice soft yet deadly. "We tracked that damn demon, but we needed a way to kill it. We found a gun, a Colt, that can kill anything, I mean supernatural anything. And when we cornered that thing, I'm the one who pulled the trigger and blew his ass into oblivion."

Dean sneered at him. "Think it's party time, right? Demon's dead, Mom's avenged, we stopped the Apocalypse and now we can all celebrate. Except Dad's not happy at all. Starts hunting less, drinking more, and I mean a lot. He couldn't even look me in the eye anymore. Goes on for months. One night, he gets stinking drunk, and I tried to drag him home. That's when he tells me.

"I did what he spent twenty years dreaming about. I killed the demon, not him. He never got to feel the satisfaction of killing the damn thing himself. And he hates me for it. I took away his revenge, his purpose. He can't stand the sight of me." So worked up his body was trembling, Dean kept his fists clenched tight at his sides. "Couple days later he just vanished. Didn't leave word, a note, nothing, just up and left me. Again."

Abruptly his anger fled, and Dean slumped back on the bed, hands hanging between his knees. "Now? He's either dead, drunk, or starting a new life somewhere. I don't know or care. All I know is that I'm tired of being left behind."

Sam opened and closed his mouth a few times, not quite sure there was anything he could say.

"Know what really gets me, though? Growing up, you and Dad were always fighting, just butting heads over everything, especially hunting. You ran off to college just to get away from us. You told me that you wanted a 'safe' life." He snorted. "After all that rebellion, trying to get away from the life, you're still a hunter. You and Dad, you're still the same. Only I think you've got the harder job. Demons, they're easy to get." He took another drink. "People are just fuckin' crazy."

"And what about you, Dean?" Sam said. "You fit in that category?"

"What d'you mean?" he growled back.

"We tracked your every movement for the last five years. The places you've been, the cases you've worked. Lot of 'em it's easy to tell if you know what to look for. Other, well, they seem a bit suspicious. Like they're not supernatural."

Dean raised his head and shot Sam an incredulous look. "You thinkin' I've been killing people?"

Sam stood firm. "There is a reason they labeled you a serial killer, y'know."

"C'mon Sam," he snarled. "You really think I could murder innocent people in cold blood?"

"Yeah Dean, I do."

At that, Dean seemed to deflate, the spark in his eyes winking out. He just shook his head slowly and reached for the whiskey bottle again. "In that case, I have nothing more to say to you."

Sam glared at him, wanting more than . . . this. Wanting satisfaction for the life Dean wrecked for him. Wanting . . . something.

Snarling to himself, Sam turned to the door and yanked it open, spilling weak rays of late autumn sun into the room. He took a step . . . then stopped.

Where the hell was he going to go?

He had no home, no job. The FBI was looking for him. He was completely at loose ends, and didn't know what he could do. He'd been so focused on finding Dean that he'd failed to plan beyond that. Now, he had no purpose, and for a moment he wanted to turn and punch Dean for taking that too away from him.

_I took away his revenge, his purpose. He can't stand the sight of me._

The words echoed in his head, ricocheting around other memories. He glanced back at Dean sitting there, watching, waiting for him to walk out. To abandon him, just like Dad did.

_You and Dad, you're still the same._

"Goddamnit," he cursed under his breath, an ugly feeling welling up in his stomach. A minute ago he didn't know what to do. Now he knew his choices.

He could walk over to the motel office, call the nearest FBI office, and turn both of them in. He probably still wouldn't have his job back, but he would clear his record and win back some favor. Maybe he could still work as an analyst. Unlikely, but still.

He could walk away, go make himself a new life, somewhere the FBI would never find him. He could settle down, get a safe job, find a nice girl and marry her. He had some money and enough contacts to make Sam Winchester disappear, and become someone totally new.

Or . . .

He could do the hardest thing and try to reconnect with his family.

It wouldn't be easy. Hell, right now it seemed nearly impossible, with the chasm between him and Dean littered with the dead ashes of burned bridges, and Sam holding the matches.

But the foundations were still there.

Now he realized why he became such a workaholic, why he hated going back to that empty apartment, why he sometimes felt itchy and uncomfortable in his own skin. Because no one really knew Sam Winchester in the first place, not his team, not even Jess. He'd created a shell, a nice image for them to admire, but never let anyone inside it. It had bothered him for years, and he never understood why, until now.

He was lonely as hell.

And so was Dean.

And if he walked out that door right now, he would always be that closed off shell, He'll never be Sammy, never have someone who actually gets him, who knows all the little details about him. All the while growing up, Dean had never once forgotten something if it was important to Sam, because Sam was important to him.

He wanted to be that important again.

His decision made, Sam moved to walk out the door.

Dean sighed. "If you're gonna turn me in . . . well, guess you gotta do what you gotta do."

The door clicked shut behind Sam.

*~*~*~*~*~*

The next morning, Sam was leaning on the Impala when Dean walked out of the motel room. Dean frowned at him, taking in the jeans and layered shirts, the duffel bag at his feet. A quick glance around showed no one else out and about, and cautiously Dean walked over to the Impala.

When he opened the back door to toss his duffel in, Sam pitched his in along next to it, then opened the passenger side door and slid in. "So, where to first? Vegas, or the Grand Canyon?"

Dean scowled and opened the driver's door, getting in next to Sam. "Get out of the car."

"No." Sam met his gaze calmly. "I'm coming with you."

"What? What about, y'know, being a fed and law and order and all that?"

Sam shook his head. "Can't go back, Dean."

Dean looked out the windshield, tensing as he bit out, "Don't do this just because of that. We can do something –"

"No." Sam crossed his arms over his chest, silently daring Dean to try and kick him out of the car.

Dean shook his head, completely confused. "I don't get it. Why're you doing this?"

Sam let out a long breath. "Because you're still my brother."

Dean blinked, then ever so slowly a tentative smile curled his lips. "Bitch."

Sam smiled back, something settling warm and light in his chest for the first time since Stanford. "Jerk."

It felt like coming home.

**END**


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